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CHERRY 


wo R n S BY 

AMY 

LE TEUVRE 

For COMPLE-Ti: 
LIST SEE THE 
LAST PAGES 
or THIS BOOH 


CHERRY 

THE CUMBERER 
THAT BORE FRUIT 


BY 

AMY LE FEUVRE 

Author of “Probable Sons,” “Teddy’s Button,” “The Odd 
One,” and “The Puzzling Pair.” 



New York Chicago Toronto 

Fleming H. Revell Company 

1901 







THE L»B«ARV OF 
CONGRESS. 

Two CoHM RectivEO 

OCT. 14 1901 

COPVniOMT ENTR'V 

CLASS ^XXc. NO. 

COPY a* 


Copyright, 1901, 

BY 

Fleming H. Revbll Company 
(Aagast) 


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CONTENTS 


PAGE 

I.— Their Father 9 

II.— Their New Home 20 

III. — Their Tutor 34 

IV. — Their Cousin 48 

V. — Their Adventure 66 

VI. — A CUMBERER 82 

VII.— Bonnie’s Story • 95 

VIII.— Miss Arnold’s Plan ...... 108 

IX.— New Playfellows 123 

X.— A Sick-House 135 

XI.— A Talk with “Father” .... 150 

XII. — In a Farmhouse 162 

XIII. — Day of Misfortunes 176 

XIV. — Home Again 191 

XV.— How TO Have Fruit 204 

XVI.— Blossoms of Hope 216 

XVH.-Chereies .... ... 227 


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CHERRY 


I 

THEIR FATHER 

‘‘I know exactly what he will be like!” 

^‘Tell ns!” 

“He will be fat, and red, and have a tem- 
per like a fury, like the chap on Nabob’s 
Pickles! They always are like that when 
they have been in India. It’s the sun that 
touches up their heads, and makes them hot 
and peppery!” 

Eustace spoke as if he were well versed in 
Indian colonels. 

Phil lay on his chest, and regarded him 
doubtfully. 

“He is sure to be able to shoot well, and 
I expect will bring tons of tiger skins back 
with him, like Larkins’ uncle. Larkins said 
he was a jolly old fellow who tipped him 
big every time he went to see him! Don’t 
you make him out too nasty, Stacy!” 

Then Cherry, who had been making her 
eyes bigger and bigger with fright, said: 


lO 


CHERRY 


is so dreadful to belong to a strange 
man, and to have to go away with him 
wherever he likes to take us!’’ 

^ ^Rather exciting,” said Eustace shortly. 

“And perwaps,” remarked Bonnie in her 
soft, lisping voice, “he may kiss us and like 
us!” 

There was a shout of laughter from the 
boys at this comforting conclusion. Bonnie 
always made the best of things. Cherry the 
worst. It was a very important discussion 
taking place in the nursery. Nothing less 
than the expected arrival of an unknown 
father from India; a father who had never 
written to them since their mother’s death, 
now five years ago. 

The little St. Legers had always lived with 
Dr. and Mrs. Burton, who were old friends 
of their mother’s. The two boys came to 
her just before the colonel and his wife went 
out to India; Cherry and Bonnie arrived in 
charge of a nurse, with the interval of a year 
between them ; and all four children had little 
or no recollection of their parents. Mrs. Bur- 
ton had been their second mother. She had 
no children of her own, and she had settled 
in her own mind that she would have posses- 
sion of these little motherless ones, till they 
grew up and went out into life, when a let- 
ter from their father upset all her calcula- 
tions, and brought consternation and dis- 


THEIR FATHER ii 

may into her household. It was a short 
epistle. 

“DEAR MRS. BURTON: I am invalided home. Shall 
live at Instanton. Expect me about 5th inst. Must 
make fresh arrangements about children. Hope they 
are well. 

“Yours sincerely, 

“EUSTACE ST. LEGER.” 

“He is going to take them from us!” said 
Mrs. Burton tearfully, as she turned to her 
husband in the presence of the children, and 
read this letter aloud. If she had not been 
so startled and dismayed, she would not 
have done so. 

Of course the children jumped at once to 
the conclusion that their father was coming 
to fetch them away. The idea brought a 
mixture of dread and dehght to their imagi- 
native minds. 

Eustace and Phil attended a small pre- 
paratory school in the town close to the 
Doctor’s house; Cherry and Bonnie did les- 
sons under Mrs. Burton’s superintendence. 
Between four and five that afternoon they 
were gathered in the room that was still 
called the nursery, waiting for their tea. It 
was early spring, and rain was falling fast 
outside. For once the boys were satisfied to 
remain indoors, and the girls were delighted 
to have them. All four were healthy rollick- 
ing Httle souls. Eustace, the eldest, was rest- 


12 


CHERRY 


less in spirit, daring and original in resources. 
He liked to lead, and only Phil resisted Ms 
sway. PMl had a quieter disposition, his 
hobby was inventions. With a few bits of 
wood, wire and string he would produce the 
most astonisMng macMnes; they lacked fin- 
ish, and sometimes were the cause of much 
disaster, but they kept Ms brain and fingers 
busy, and prevented Mm from sharing in 
some of the others’ miscMevous scrapes. 

Cherry was a little, thin, wiry girl, with 
wistful dark eyes which looked out at the 
world too earnestly for her own comfort. 
She threw her heart and soul into every- 
thing she did, whether it was right or 
wrong; and was nervously sensitive as to 
other people’s opinions of her. 

Bonnie was the happiest, sunniest little 
creature that ever frisked this earth. She 
had flaxen curls and deep blue eyes; her 
plumpness was perhaps her only trial, for 
the boys called her “Pudding” and “Fatty.” 
They once took her to task about her smil- 
ing face, assuring her she was a “Cheshire 
cat, perpetually on the grin!” 

Bonnie was found afterward by Mrs. Bur- 
ton seriously inspecting herself in the bed- 
room looking-glass. 

She climbed down from the chair on which 
she was standing, with a wise little nod, 
and a brighter smile than ever. 


THEIR FATHER 


13 

‘Tear God horned me a smiler. He wanted 
somebody in the world to smile always, all 
the time, and that’s why my lips will turn up ! ” 

Mrs. Burton walked away, saying in her 
heart : 

“Thank God for the smilers in the world!” 

Bonnie’s grammar was uncertain; her heart 
was big, and there was nobody and nothing 
that she did not love. The four were very 
good friends. Their quarrels never lasted 
long, and they were staunch and true to 
each other in difficulty or trouble. 

The day after the discussion in the nur- 
sery Colonel St. Leger arrived. 

He did not come till after dark, and the 
little girls were just going to bed. The great- 
est excitement arose when a hasty summons 
was sent from the drawing-room to tell them 
to come down. Cherry was beside herself 
with nervousness ; she tried valiantly to hide 
it; the boys were already in the giggling 
state; Bonnie was the only one who trot- 
ted down with her usually placid smile. 

“Stacy go in first!” whispered Cherry be- 
seechingly, outside the door. 

“Sha’n’t. I know my manners. Men al- 
ways hang on behind!” 

“Bonnie, you go! Oh, I wish you weren’t 
so short!” 

“Crawl in on all fours. She’ll hide you!” 
suggested Phil, capering up and down. 


CHERRY 


H 

And then Mrs. Burton, hearing the whis- 
pering voices, threw open the door and solved 
the difficulty by taking each little girl by the 
hand. She was proud of her charges. They 
were all clean and tidy in the best clothes, 
and having been warned beforehand, were 
on their best behavior. But they were all 
taken back when they saw their father. 

A pale, languid-looking man enveloped in 
wraps lay back in Mrs. Burton’s best arm- 
chair. He had a long, drooping mustache, 
sad eyes, and the softest voice that the chil- 
dren had ever heard. 

He looked up as they entered, but seemed 
too tired to rouse himself. 

“They look very strong and well,” he 
said. 

He did not offer to kiss them. Cherry, 
in an agony of indecision and shyness, had 
found herself lifting up her face for a kiss. 
She stepped back with scarlet cheeks, just as 
her father bent forward. Bonnie was more 
fortunate, but then she looked such a baby, 
and the tickle of the long mustache as it 
swept her cheek amused her so, that she at 
once indulged in a little fat chuckle. The 
boys squared their shoulders, and shook 
hands as if they were working a pump han- 
dle up and down. Colonel St. Leger drew 
a long breath when the introductions were 
over. 


THEIR FATHER 


IS 

‘‘I must talk about plans to-morrow,” he 
said slowly. 

Then being conscious that eight bright eyes 
were fixed on him in earnest scrutiny, he 
added : 

“I shall be better able to talk when I am 
rested. They do you credit, Mrs. Burton.” 

Mrs. Burton smiled. 

“I am not anxious to lose them.” 

“No? Well — we will see — I am going to 
set up a bachelor establishment. Mrs. Tip- 
kins, who has been left in charge at Instan- 
ton all this time, will arrange things. But 
I prefer to have only men servants about 
me, as in India. I am a thorough bachelor, 
and my man I have brought home with me 
will be invaluable. If the place were smaller, 
he would be sufiicient in himself.” 

Bonnie had been standing by her father’s 
side. She put out her little, soft hand and 
laid it on his knee. 

“We’ll be bachelors too,” she said in her 
persuasive tone. “We’ll be very good, and 
you’ll teach us how!” 

Bonnie little knew that her touch and 
words were the means of deciding their fate 
then and there. 

Colonel St. Leger had been weighing mat- 
ters thoughtfully, and had come to the con- 
clusion that he would rather not have his 
children with him. He was steeling himself 


i6 


CHERRY 


against their bright young faces, when the 
soft baby hand undid it all. Something rose 
up in his heart and protested against living 
apart from them ; memory took him back to 
a fair young wife in agony of tears as she laid 
her youngest in the faithful nurse’s arms. 

^‘Take her; a bit of my heart and life goes 
with her ; but I would cut off my right hand 
to save her precious life. God did not bring 
her into this world for me to hurry her out 
of it by my selfishness!” 

And this was the baby standing by him 
now ; the one whose soft lips had been lifted 
so caressingly to his, the one who seemed to 
claim his lot at once as hers, without a shad- 
ow of doubt or fear. 

He smiled at her now, but said nothing. 
Mrs. Burton laughed aloud ; then seeing 
Colonel St. Leger wished the interview to 
be short, she bade them wish him “good- 
night” and go to bed. 

“You stupid silly!” ejaculated Stacy, turn- 
ing upon Bonnie directly they were outside 
the door. “You’re always so ready to say 
things, and you always say them wrong!” 

“What do you think a bachelor is?” echoed 
Phil, with his short nose well in the air, 
“nothing that a baby like you can ever 
be!” 

If Cherry had been the defaulter, she would 
have been covered with shame and confusion. 


THEIR FATHER 


17 

Not so Bonnie. She stood her ground stur- 
dily. 

“I’m going to be like father. I don’t know 
what it is, but he is it, and I shall be too. 
I shall make myself a bachelor; I shall be 
growed into it!” 

Stacy was so overcome by Bonnie’s ear- 
nestness and emphasis that he rolled over 
on the ground trying to stifle his laughter. 
Phil flung himself on the top of him. The 
little girls raced upstairs, leaving their bro- 
thers to fight it out, and it was not until 
their hair was being brushed by Annie, the 
bright young nursery maid, that Bonnie 
again referred to the subject. 

“What is a bachelor. Cherry?” 

Cherry had a very vague idea of such a 
person. 

“It’s a— a kind of man, I think— some- 
thing like an uncle.” 

Annie laughed. 

“Oh, Miss Cherry, what nonsense! A bach- 
elor be what no man ought to be; he be a 
set-up creature who thinks himself too good 
for women! A man that’s frightened of any 
woman!” 

“I’m sure father isn’t afraid of anybody,” 
said Cherry hastily. 

“Your father? Eh, dear, no ; he be no bach- 
elor. A bachelor be a man that never wants 
to marry.” 

2 


i8 


CHERRY 


Bonnie did not understand these explana- 
tions. She was crestfallen at the idea that 
it was something beyond the powers of her 
attainment. 

Colonel St. Leger was again discussed by 
his children over their breakfast the next 
morning. 

“He’s nothing like you said, Stacy. He’s 
ever so much nicer!” Cherry spoke between 
spoonfuls of porridge. 

“I don’t know about that,” said Stacey 
with his grown-up air. “These quiet fellows 
are rather deep. There’s Marcus Bains at 
our school ” 

“Father isn’t a fellow,” interrupted Cherry. 

“Oh, shut up! What is he? And he may 
be a kind of a sleeping lion; you never can 
tell!” 

“We’ll tell better when he has unpacked 
his things,” said Phil, with a knowing nod. 

“I think,” said Cherry decidedly, “he is 
sleepy and ill and tired; and if we go and 
live with him we shall be able to do just 
what we like!” 

“He won’t stand noise, I’m afraid,” said 
Phil. “I hope he is not a molly coddle!” 

Mrs. Burton, who presided over the break- 
fast table, and who had been deep in her 
letters, now looked up. 

“Boys, are you speaking of your father?” 

“Yes,” Phil said unabashed. “We are.” 


THEIR FATHER 


19 

“But don’t you know that you must be 
respectful? Remember this, a father’s ac- 
tion and words must never be questioned. 
You must honor and obey and — love him. 
And every boy and girl ought to think their 
father the very best man in the whole world !” 

“But every one’s father can’t be best,” 
said Phil, who was a born arguer. 

“You must think him best. He must be 
best to you.” 

“But I like to think true,” continued Phil. 

Bonnie came to the rescue. 

“He’s the best father that I has ever had,” 
she said with warmth, “and I’m going to 
love him the bestest!” 

“How many fathers have you had?” ques- 
tioned Stacy, with a giggle. 

Bonnie was undaunted. 

“I may have had lots before I was borned, 
only I can’t remember them!” 

The boys shouted, and then Phil said 
gravely : 

“I’ll give you my new shilling, Bonnie, the 
very first sensible thing you say!” 

Bonnie beamed at him over her mug of 
milk. 

“And then I’ll go and buy that wunnerful 
doll in the toy shop that walks by her legs 
without holding!” 

“It’s time you were off to school, boys,” said 
Mrs. Burton; and the little party broke up. 


II 


THEIR NEW HOME 

Colonel St. Leger soon arranged his plans. 
He would take the children with him to In- 
stanton, he said; and he would engage a 
tutor to come and live in the house and look 
after them. 

^‘Not a governess!” he said, when such a 
suggestion was made to him by Mrs. Bur- 
ton. “I don’t want a woman in the place, 
except Mrs. Tipkins, who will be my house- 
keeper.” 

“But Cherry and Bonnie must have a nurse 
or maid,” urged Mrs. Burton. “If you dis- 
pense with a governess, you cannot dispense 
with that.” 

“What is their present nurse like?” asked 
the colonel, with a frown. 

“A most respectable young girl ” 

“Oh, no young girls in my establishment, 
if you please,” was the testy response. “Mrs. 
Tipkins must see to them, or else get some 
one suitable. What do they want a nurse 
for? Cannot they dress themselves?” 

“Cherry can, but not Bonnie. They are 
neither of them big enough to look after 
themselves.” 


THEIR NEW HOME 


21 


“It’s a pity they are not all boys,” mut- 
tered the colonel. 

Mrs. Burton, with a sigh, gave in to the 
inevitable; but she began to load Cherry 
with so many instructions that her little 
face began to look almost careworn. 

“You are the eldest girl, dear, and when 
you grow older you will have to take your 
dear mother’s place, and be mistress of your 
father’s house. I want you to try to be as 
helpful and useful as you can. I am afraid 
I have spoilt you by letting you do so little 
for yourself. I remember my eldest sister, 
when only a couple of years older than you 
are, used always to mend her brother’s 
socks and stockings. You can sew very 
nicely, and you must try and keep your- 
self and Bonnie tidy, and never let the boys 
come to meals with dirty hands and faces. 
Be gentle and kind with them, and remind 
them of the training I have tried to give 
them. You may be a great blessing and 
comfort to your father, Cherry, if you like. 
Only you must learn to be unselfish and 
think of pleasing others before yourself.” 

“Oh, I will, I will!” cried Cherry earnestly 
as she clasped her little hands nervously to- 
gether, “and I won’t mind if the boys laugh 
at me, and I will always comb my hair right 
through, however much it hurts; and I’ll try 
and not tread my shoes down at the heels.” 


22 


CHERRY 


Poor little Cherry! The future lay before 
her like a black cloud. She could not bear 
strangers; and she was going to a strange 
home with no one to whom she could turn 
if the full agony of shyness came upon her. 

“Oh,” she cried to herself when in bed that 
night. “I am to take care of all the others; 
but who will take care of me?” 

It was no wonder that her eyes grew big 
with plaintive sadness and fright. She never 
spoke of her fears, and Mrs. Burton had no 
idea of the doubt and dread in her little 
heart. 

Colonel St. Leger did not stay many days 
with Dr. Burton. He, with his faithful man 
“Goff,” went down to his country house al- 
most directly. The children were to follow 
a fortnight later. They were bitterly disap- 
pointed that their father had brought them 
no presents. With the exception of Bonnie, 
Colonel St. Leger had faded in gaining their 
affections; but he hardly saw them, and 
when he did, seemed to have nothing to say 
to them. 

Mrs. Burton did not talk to them of the 
tutor. The boys were under the impression 
that they would attend school there ; and she 
did not undeceive them. 

When the last day came they were all in 
a most excited state; and in desperation 
Mrs. Burton turned the boys into the gar- 


THEIR NEW HOME 


23 

den, whilst she superintended the packing. 
She intended to take them down herself and 
see them thoroughly settled into their new 
home ; but her heart was heavy, and she tried 
not to think of the blank they would leave 
in her household. 

“Cherry,” she said, turning to the little 
girls, who were following her about from 
room to room, and rather hindering her than 
helping, “will you take Bonnie into the draw- 
ing-room and look at some picture books 
there? Don’t join the boys, and don’t get 
into mischief. I will come down very soon 
to you, and then we will have a nice talk to- 
gether.” 

The children went, but their tongues were 
busy, and the books were unheeded. They 
settled themselves on the deep window- 
seat overlooking the principal street in the 
town. 

“Will father unpack us?” Bonnie asked 
anxiously. “Will he be able to tie my pina- 
fores behind without getting my curls 
catched?” 

“I’m going to do everything for every- 
body,” said Cherry a little grandly. “And 
you’ll all have to do what I tell you, because 
I’m father’s eldest daughter.” 

“Not Stacy and Phil; they telled me we 
would run in and out, and up and down, 
and all over everywheres, because it was 


CHERRY 


24 

country we was going to; and everybodies 
does what they like in the country!” 

Cherry shook her head. 

“I’m not to do a single thing that I like; 
auntie said so.” 

Bonnie looked up with her chuckling laugh. 

“But auntie didn’t mean that.” 

“Yes — I’ve got to take care of you—all of 
you.” 

A deep sigh followed. 

Bonnie was pursuing a very lazy fly round 
and round the window pane with her fin- 
ger. 

“Dear God takes care of us. We arsks Him 
every day. Oh, Cherry, isn’t he a little dar- 
ling? Do you think he would like a kiss?” 

She was holding the fly in her little palm 
and regarding it with loving gaze. 

“Don’t be cruel, Bonnie; let him go!” 

A voice behind them startled them. 

“Well, little maidens, what is your treas- 
ure?” 

They turned, and the captured fly escaped 
in delight. A tall clergyman stood look- 
ing at them with some amusement. Cherry 
knew him at once. He was the new curate 
of the parish church. He had taken a chil- 
dren’s service the Sunday before, and she 
found herself with delight understanding all 
he said. This was his first caU. 

Bonnie put up her face for a kiss, which 


THEIR NEW HOME 


^5 

was promptly given her; then she trotted 
out of the room to call “auntie.” 

Cherry stood shyly in front of him, and 
was relieved when Mrs. Burton appeared; 
but Mr. Clark put his arm round her and 
drew her to him. 

“And what is your name?” 

“Cherry,” she whispered. 

“It is not her baptismal name,” said Mrs. 
Burton, smiling; “that is Christobel. Her 
mother had just planted a small cherry-tree 
at the time of her birth, and it was she who 
gave her the nickname.” 

“You must be a fruitful Cherry-tree,” said 
Mr. Clark, looking at her with a smile; “not 
a cumberer of the ground. There are too 
many cumberers in God’s garden.” 

Cherry looked up at him questioningly, but 
could say nothing. 

“That is what I am telling her,” said Mrs. 
Burton. “She is going away from me with 
her brothers and sisters, and I tell her she 
must be a little mother to them.” 

“Cherries must be sweet,” said Mr. Clark, 
“and smooth; they don’t prick people, like 
gooseberries. And I like cherries that are as 
good as they look; not those nasty, sour 
things that make your mouth water till you 
taste them, and then make you wish to 
empty a sugar basin down your throat to 
take away their taste.” 


26 


CHERRY 


Cherry smiled. 

Mr. Clark continued: 

^‘You make up your mind to have a lot 
of fruit. And if you want a Bible lessen for 
a rainy Sunday, look up some of the trees 
God tells you about, and don’t forget the sol- 
emn lesson we are taught about cumberers.” 

Then he turned to talk to Mrs. Burton, and 
Cherry slipped out of the room. What was 
a cumberer, she wondered. What kind of 
tree was it? She had never heard the name 
before. 

She asked the boys a little later. Stacy 
answered promptly. 

“A cumberer? Oh, it means a clumsy-fisted 
creature.” 

Cherry pondered deeply. 

“But it’s something to do with a garden,” 
she said. 

“Oh, you mean a cucumber — those things 
that look like green eels ! You are a stupid 
not to know a cucumber!” 

Cherry shook her head. 

“I’m sure it’s a cumberer I mean. It’s in 
the Bible. I’ll look for it.” 

But she could not do it that day, and the 
next day all travelled down to Instanton 
under charge of Mrs. Burton. The children 
never forgot the first sight of their new home. 
It was a lovely spring afternoon when they 
arrived at the little covintry station. 


THEIR NEW HOME 


27 

A very shabby cab drove them through 
green lanes bordered by budding elms, and 
when they turned in at some iron gates, the 
drive up to Instanton Manor was between 
buttercup meadows. The house, an old brick 
building, was nearly covered with green creep- 
ers, and a spacious green lawn stretched 
down on one side to a fir plantation. The 
boys nudged each other delightedly. Cherry 
looked out with anxious eyes. 

They were met on the doorstep by Mrs. 
Tipkins, who looked a little heated and ner- 
vous. She was a tall, angular woman with 
red cheeks, and an old black lace cap with 
red ribbons hung over one side of her head. 
Mrs. Tipkins never could keep her caps 
straight ; perhaps it was because she had so 
little hair underneath them. The children 
looked at her with awe-struck eyes. She 
wore a black silk dress, and made a low 
bow to Mrs. Burton as she came up the 
steps holding Bonnie by the hand. 

“I’m very pleased to see you, mem! And 
the young ladies and gentlemen— and the 
colonel does not wish to be disturbed till 
he has finished his afternoon nap, and I will 
take you to your rooms.” 

The hall was a low, broad one, and the 
stairs were old carved oak, with many a 
crook and turn. There was a long gallery 
at the top, with six windows looking out 


28 


CHERRY 


over wooded country and hills, and rooms 
opened into it on the other side. The bed- 
rooms were all pleasant, sunny rooms, but 
had an unused appearance. A large square 
one in the centre was to be the children’s 
schoolroom. 

“This is away from the colonel’s apart- 
ments, and he will not hear the noise,” said 
Mrs. Tipkins, looking at the boys nervously 
as she spoke. 

Mrs. Burton had her hands full that even- 
ing, for she was leaving early the next morn- 
ing, and she had much to talk over with 
Mrs. Tipkins and arrange. A young girl 
about sixteen, Mrs. Tipkins’ niece, was to 
wait on the little girls. The rest of the es- 
tablishment consisted of “Goff,” the col- 
onel’s man; Abercrombie, the old gardener, 
and Sam, the odd boy. Mrs. Tipkins did the 
cooking herself, with the help of a woman 
from the village. She listened to Mrs. Bur- 
ton’s many suggestions with an anxious 
face. 

“I will do my very best, mem. I remem- 
ber their dear mother, and she was a sweet 
young lady, but the colonel is a gentleman 
who likes no trouble, and I wish a lady was 
in the house. I do not understand children. 
I know they are always noisy, and I am 
afraid I shall not be able to keep them 
quiet.” 


THEIR NEW HOME 


29 

The children did not see their father at all 
that night. He was not well, they were told. 
When Cherry was in bed, Mrs. Burton came 
and sat down by her with a heavy heart; 
but she tried to look cheerful. 

“You will try and do just as you have al- 
ways done with me. Cherry dear. Remem- 
ber prayers and Bible reading. Never for- 
get that. Read to Bonnie every morning 
until she is able to do it herself. Try and 
please others before yourself, and never for- 
get you are the eldest girl, amd must grow 
up to be a help and comfort to your 
father.” 

Cherry nodded with big eyes and a puck- 
ered brow, and then Mrs. Burton put her 
arms round her, and they had a little cry 
together. 

“If anything very dreadful happens. Cherry, 
you can write to me, you know.” 

“But if it happens every day?” queried 
Cherry, settling down to thoughts of the 
very worst. 

“Oh, but it won’t, darling. And God will 
take care of you. You must tell Him all 
your little troubles.” 

And then she kissed her again, and went 
away, and Cherry fell asleep to dream of 
nameless horrors that always hovered over 
her when she was tired and excited. 

Mrs. Burton had already left the house be- 


CHERRY 


30 

fore the children were awake the next morn- 
ing. Cherry woke up to find Bonnie already 
chattering to Nettie, their new maid, who 
had come to dress them. Somehow or other 
the sunshiny morning, the singing of birds 
outside the window, and the sweet yellow 
jasmine tapping against the panes, all helped 
to clear away the clouds from Cherry’s face. 

She was not an old woman, but a happy 
child, and Bonnie’s ceaseless chatter took her 
out of herself and her anxieties. 

They went into the schoolroom, where 
breakfast was already laid. The boys were 
there, and for a moment they looked help- 
lessly at each other. Was no one coming to 
sit at the head of the table? Nettie had 
brought in the tea and four boiled eggs and 
had then left the room. There was ho bread 
and butter cut; no one to say grace. 

“This is stunning!” said Stacy. “You’ll 
have to pour out tea, Cherry, and I’ll cut 
the loaf. Hurrah for liberty!” 

Cherry took her seat with some impor- 
tance. 

“We’ll say grace first,” she said, “like we 
always do. It’s your turn to-day.” 

Phil covered his eyes with his hand, and 
said it reverently, though a little hastily. 

“I’ll have four lumps of sugar. Cherry. 
Here! Pass the basin.” 

Cherry pursed up her lips. 


THEIR NEW HOME 


31 

“IVe given yon two. Auntie said we must 
do just the same here as at home.” 

Phil grumbled and looked meditatively at 
the basin as if he were going to snatch it. 
Bonnie turned his thoughts elsewhere. 

“I’m going to wish father good-morning 
after breakfus’. I told his soldier man I 
would. I like him; he buttoned my shoe 
that wouldn’t button in the passage just 
now, and he smiles so big!” 

“Not as big a grin as yours,” said Phil. 
“Don’t you go near father; you’ll only do 
something stupid, and we want to have a 
jolly good day without him.” 

“He will have prayers, won’t he?” asked 
Cherry. 

“It’s my belief he sleeps all day,” said 
Stacy with decision. “As long as we don’t 
wake him we shall be all right.” 

“But who will have prayers then?” 

“Oh, shut up. Cherry; it’s only grown-up 
people who do that sort of thing.” 

But Cherry always stuck to her point. 

“Auntie said that I must see that we did 
everything exactly like home, and I can’t 
take prayers.” 

“I think I could if I could read,” said Bon- 
nie. “It’s only reading out of a book to 
dear God, isn’t it?” 

Cherry shook her head and said no more. 
The boys were not long over their break- 


CHERRY 


32 

fast, and then tore out of doors as fast as 
their legs could carry them. The little girls 
were preparing to follow them, when Net- 
tie brought a message to say that their 
father wished to see them; and Cherry, ill 
at ease, took Bonnie’s hand and stepped 
softly into a darkened room on the ground 
floor. 

Colonel St. Leger was l3dng on a couch 
near the half-open window. His feet were 
croveed with a tiger-skin, which at first 
sight looked rather alarming. He held out 
his hand to them both. Bonnie insisted upon 
kissing him, and Cherry timidly followed her 
example. 

“Sit down,” he said in his soft, mellow 
voice; “I want to speak to you.” 

“And so does we,” said Bonnie, with her 
happy little nod. 

“Your tutor arrives this evening. You 
must tell your brothers. I expect him to 
see to everything, and you are to obey him 
implicitly.” 

Cherry stared at him bewilderedly. 

“I don’t know who he is,” she murmured. 

“His name is Leonard Hastings. Mr. Has- 
tings, you must call him. He will teach you 
lessons and look after you generally.” 

The Colonel spoke slowly, then noticed 
Cherry’s eyes of terror. 

“What is it?” he asked. 


THEIR NEW HOME 


33 

“He will be another strange man,” she 
said, with a little choke in her voice. 

The Colonel smiled. 

“You don’t like strangers. Come here.” 

Cherry obeyed. Her father put his hand 
under her chin and raised her face to his, 
looking at her very scrutinizingly. 

“Am I a stranger?” 

Cherry’s heart beat fast, but she was very 
truthful. 

“Yes.” 

“And are you afraid of strangers? Are you 
afraid of me?” 

Cherry little knew how much hung upon 
her answer. 

She looked at her father steadily; some- 
thing in his eyes fascinated her ; and then an 
impulse which she hardly understood made 
her put her two little arms round his neck. 

“I shall not be afraid— now,” she whis- 
pered. 

He put his hand on her head. 

“Good child!” was all that he said, but 
from that moment he was enshrined in Cher- 
ry’s heart as an object of adoration and love. 

3 


Ill 


THEIR TUTOR 

“Do lessons with girls ! I should think we 
wouldn’t!’^ 

“Have a man governess at our heels all 
day!” 

“And no other fellows to learn with, or 
play with, why, what is he thinking of!” 

“Of course we shall go to school ! I never 
heard such rot!” 

“ITl go straight to father, and tell him we 
won’t stand it!” 

“He must think us a couple of babies !” 

Cherry stood abashed before the boys’ an- 
ger, when she told her news. 

“Why did he funk telling us?” asked Stacy, 
who felt injured that Cherry had been sum- 
moned to give them the information. 

“Let’s tell him we won’t stand it!” said 
Phil, and away the two boys raced, across 
the green lawn, and into the house, where 
they finally tumbled into the arms of Gofif. 

“We want to see father!” 

Goff was a tall, thin man with an ugly, 
though pleasant face. His smile, as Bonnie 
had remarked, was a big one. 


THEIR TUTOR 


35 

‘‘Hey day, young masters, but ye can’t. 
The Colonel is not to be disturbed!” 

“But we must. Tell him it is important 
business 1” 

^^Most important, and we can’t wait a min- 
ute 1” 

The bo 3 dsh voices were earnest, and shrill, 
and penetrated into the darkened room. 

A small silver gong was sounded, and Goff 
darted in. He came out in a minute. 

“The Colonel will see you, sirs.” 

Once inside their father’s room, the boys 
did not feel so brave. 

He was still on his couch, and his voice 
was as low and gentle as it had been to his 
little daughters. 

“Come in, boys. Good morning. I heard 
you were wanting to see me. I am not well 
to-day, so am keeping quiet. I must beg you 
to keep quiet too, whilst you are in- 
doors.” 

There was a pause. Phil gave Stacy a 
nudge, and Stacy began to get rather red 
as he stuttered out: 

“Cherry has been saying some fellow is 
coming to-day ; and we’re to do lessons with 
her and Bonnie. We’re school-boys, we 
couldn’t do it. They’re girls, babies!” 

The Colonel fixed his eye on his eldest son; 
and Stacy began to wriggle from one foot to 
the other. 


CHERRY 


36 

“We thought she must have made a mess 
of the message!” he explained. 

Still that look, and not a word. 

Auguring well from his father’s silence, Phil 
struck in boldly: 

“You see, father, you’ve been in India, and 
you don’t know what English boys do, — 
they never learn with girls, never 

“We might as well play with dolls,” said 
Stacy, gathering courage. 

Then the Colonel spoke, but his voice, 
though it was just as gentle, was as inflexi- 
ble as iron. 

“If I saw fit for you to play with dolls, 
you should do it.” 

There was dead silence. 

“Cherry gave you my message quite cor- 
rectly. I will send for you when I want you. 
Golf, show the young gentlemen out!” 

Stacy and Phil felt very small indeed, when 
they were once more in the garden. 

“I thought he was rather soft!” said Phil, 
with tones of regret in his voice. 

Stacy could say nothing for a minute. He 
only shook his head ruefully. 

“It’s no go!” he said. “He will be getting 
us cradles to sleep in next, and we should 
have to get in them, too!” 

Phil began to laugh ; and when Phil started 
laughing it was very infectious. Stacy joined 
him, their grievances melted away ; and they 


THEIR TUTOR 


37 

raced oiF toward the farm buildings near to 
reconnoitre the premises. 

Meanwhile Cherry and Bonnie were mak- 
ing friends with the gardener. He was a 
short sturdy old man with very thick eye- 
brows that gave his face a fierce look, but 
he was very civil to them. 

He was mowing a bit of the lawn, and 
Bonnie went over to a bit of the grass that 
had not yet been cut. Dancing over it she 
exclaimed : 

“Oh, Cherry, what dear little daisies and 
buttercups ! How they must be wanting to 
pull themselves right up through the earth 
and run round after me! How tired they 
must get of keeping still ! Why doesn’t dear 
God give the flowers feet to run about?” 

“You would never be able to pick them if 
they could run away from you,” said Cherry 
wisely. 

Bonnie sat down on the grass to do one 
of her “thinks,” as she termed it. Abercrom- 
bie looked at her with a strange light in 
his eyes. 

“Ay, lassie, never speer aboot the 
A’mighty’s dealin’s. The flowers do wi’oot 
feet, and ye do wi’oot roots.” 

“Yes,” said Bonnie, looking up with her 
big blue eyes ; “did you plant them here, gar- 
dener? When were they borned — before I 
was?” 


38 CHERRY 

“Na, na, the daisies an’ buttercups be not 
my plantin’.” 

“Did dear God plant them?” 

Abercrombie nodded. 

Bonnie looked down at the mown grass 
and decapitated flowers with sorrow. 

“You shouldn’t cut off dear God’s flowers. 
Did He tell you to do it?” 

The old man looked at her thoughtfully; 
then he shook his head. 

“Ye be yer mither’s bairn surely. Wull ye 
coom wi’ me, an’ I will be shewin’ ye young 
leddies what yer mither did?” 

The little girls followed him willingly. He 
led them through a little iron gate along a 
path bordered by primroses and violets, with 
tall shrubs and trees in the background, and 
they presently came to an open space with 
a green grassy bank and a patch of mossy 
turf. A rustic seat was on the bank, and 
through a gap in the trees a most beau- 
tiful view of the distant country could be 
seen. 

“Before your mither went to Indy she used 
to ca’ this her wild garden. She would only 
have natur’s flowers, an’ naebody were to 
touch it but her ainself. She would coom 
an’ sit, an’ sit, an’ put up her han’ if I 
but just cam’ along to give her a mes- 
sage. ‘Hush! I’m listenin’ to a blackbird,’ 
she wad say. Do ye see the wee bits o’ 


THEIR TUTOR 


39 

trees in the middle o’ the turf, young 
ladies?” 

Cherry had been looking at them already. 
Four small trees stretched in a row, right 
across the grass. The old gardener touched 
them reverently. “This wee pear-tree were 
planted when Master Eustace were born; 
yer mither did it wi’ her ain hands ; this wee 
apple-tree she planted when Master Philip 
were born; an’ this wee cherry -tree when 
Miss Christobel were born, just afore she 
went away to Indy.” 

“And who planted my tree?” asked Bonnie 
breathlessly. 

“Ye see, ye were born in Indy, but I thought 
’twere a peety not to have the four trees, 
so I just pit a sma’ ploom tree in, an’ it 
have doon verra week” 

Bonnie hung over her tree admiringly. 

“I like to have a tree just so old as I 
am!” she said. 

Cherry was looking at her tree with wist- 
ful eyes. 

“I wish I could remember mother,” she 
said. “I like her garden best of all. We will 
often come and play here, won’t we, Bonnie?” 

They ran away then and found the boys. 
For the next hour they were having a de- 
lightful game of “hide and seek” in the old 
garden. 

Dinner came too soon; they sat down to 


40 


CHERRY 


it with large appetites, and their talk was 
much about the coming tutor. 

“If he is a prig, I shall have nothing to 
do with him,” said Stacy grandly. “Unless 
he is A-1 at cricket, I shall hate him ; I know 
I shall.” 

“He will wear glasses,” said Phil. “Why 
do muffs always wear them? I hate a fel- 
low who can’t see his own nose!” 

“I can’t see mine,” said Bonnie, going 
through contortions in her endeavor to do 
so. 

“Will he have a cane?” said Cherry, trying 
to speak valiantly. “Oh, of course. You will 
get plenty of whacks, and so will Bonnie if 
she turns her eyes inside out, as she is do- 
ing now.” 

Bonnie stopped her evolutions with a start. 

“I thinks,” she said meditatively, “that he 
may keep sweets in his pocket.” 

“You wait till you see him; he feeds on 
nothing but books and ink, and his pock- 
ets are crammed with sums. He’ll keep you 
in order!” 

Threats were always lost on Bonnie. She 
only smiled serenely. 

“I likes mens,” was her remark. 

When dinner was over, away scampered 
the boys into the garden again. Bonnie 
trotted up-stairs to find her favorite doll, a 
battered old waxen treasure called “Dinah,” 


THEIR TUTOR 


41 


and Cherry suddenly bethought herself of 
the word she wanted to discover in her 
Bible. 

She went in search of it, and sitting down 
on the schoolroom floor, for a long time 
toiled over it in vain. 

At last, with a sigh, she tucked it under 
her arm, and went downstairs, hoping that 
some one might help her. Abercrombie was 
training a creeper just outside the garden 
door. 

“Do you know, please,” she asked, “where 
the Bible tells about a cumberer?” 

The old man’s eyes sparkled. 

“Ay, that I do, lassie,” he said. “Be ye 
wantin’ to discover it? Han’ over the gran’ 
old book then, an’ Abercrombie woll show 
ye.” 

He turned the leaves rapidly till he came 
to the thirteenth chapter of St. Luke’s gos- 
pel. 

Cherry took it from him eagerly, and sit- 
ting on the stone doorstep, was soon quite 
absorbed in it. 

Abercrombie looked at the little figure with 
the same expression of face that he had 
looked at Bonnie in the morning, when she 
sat amongst the daisies. But he said noth- 
ing. He was Scotch, and very silent. 

At last Cherry looked up. 

“Was the fig tree a cumberer?” she asked. 


42 CHERRY 

“Ay surely, takin’ up ground an’ growin’ 
nothin’ !” 

“And that is what cumberer means?” 

“It be just a crittur of God’s makin’, that 
be not fulfillin’ the purpose o’ his Creator!” 

“I don’t understand.” 

Cherry’s face was alive with feeling and 
earnestness. 

“An unfruitful tree,” repeated the gardener, 
“no good to his ainself or onnybody else!” 

The little girl shut her Bible up, and went 
into the house with it. She shook off her 
serious thoughts, and ran away to play 
with the boys. She found them climbing 
trees, and this delightful occupation com- 
mended itself immediately to her. She was 
fleet, and nimble of foot, and was soon vying 
with them as to who should go the highest. 

A fly with luggage driving up to the house 
brought them down with full speed to the 
ground. They raced across the lawn, then 
stopped short, as they saw their father 
seated smoking in the veranda, speaking to 
the newcomer. Bonnie was standing by the 
Colonel’s side smiling seraphically at the 
young man. 

Colonel St. Leger beckoned to the boys, 
and Cherry came up behind them, wishing 
she had not torn her pinafore, nor lost her 
hat. 

“These are your pupils, Hastings,” the 


THEIR TUTOR 


43 


Colonel said; “I do not know whether they 
are backward or forward in learning. I 
know nothing about them, and as I have 
told you, I expect you to have full control 
over them.” 

Here his eye wandered to the dishevelled 
state of the three tree climbers, and he 
frowned a little. 

“You have not come a day too soon,” he 
added, “for they have no one to look after 
them at present.” 

Mr. Hastings turned round, and shook 
hands with the boys. Cherry crept behind a 
stone pillar, gazing at him curiously. 

He was a plain -featured sandy -haired 
young man, with no spectacles, and with a 
pleasant, kindly look in his gray eyes. His 
length and breadth of limb had a wholesome 
effect on the boys ; but it frightened Cherry. 
He spoke brightly and briskly; and was a 
great contrast to the Colonel, whose tones 
were always slow and languid. As he turned 
away to follow his luggage indoors, Bonnie 
patted her father’s hand to attract his atten- 
tion. 

“I s’pose it’s the lesson books makes him 
so big,” she said confidentially; “they must 
be very stuffy eating!” 

The boys giggled, and ran away. Cherry 
crept after them, but Bonnie stood her 
ground. 


44 


CHERRY 


“The boys say he eats lessons and drinks 
ink, father,” she explained. 

“The boys talk unmitigated nonsense!” 

“So they does ! And he couldn’t drink ink, 
could he? It would turn him black!” 

She wriggled herself in between her father’s 
knees, and continued, gazing out into the 
sunny garden as she spoke. 

“The gardener showed us mother’s garden 
and our little trees ; he cuts dear God’s daisies 
and buttercups and deads them. And God 
planted them Himself, the gardener didn’t. 
I’ve been telling Dinah about it. Do you 
know Dinah? She was painted black once 
with blacking — Phil did it, but Cherry and I 
scraped her back again to white. Will the 
new lesson man teach me how to make her 
frocks? Cherry tried to one day, but she 
pricked her finger and it bleeded, and then 
we used the frock to wipe up auntie’s medi- 
cine that we spilt — we was giving it to the 
black cat, you know, and she spit at us!” 

This was a specimen of Bonnie’s conversa- 
tions. She had no doubt it was deeply inter- 
esting to her father ; and he certainly did not 
seem in a hurry to get rid of her. Cherry, 
upstairs, brushing her hair, changing her 
pinafore, and making herself generally tidy, 
was longing for her little sister’s society. 
She felt their long strange day would never 
end, and the advent of Mr. Hastings filled 


THEIR TUTOR 


45 

her with awe. Presently she slipped into the 
schoolroom where Nettie was la 3 ring the tea. 
She got up on the broad window seat, and 
tucking her legs underneath her, looked out 
into the sunny garden below, with real 
homesickness and longing for “Auntie.” 

Her thoughts flew to the story of the fruit- 
less fig tree. 

“Poor tree!” she mused. “I wonder if it 
did do better, or if it was cut down after 
all ! — the Bible doesn’t say. I wonder if I’m 
a cumberer 1 The clergyman said I might be 
one. I — I expect I am. The gardener said 
it was being no good to anybody, and I 
haven’t been of any good to anybody to-day, 
I’m sure. I’ve torn myself up a tree, and 
‘Auntie’ couldn’t like that. I shall be sorry 
if I am a cumberer!” 

Tears fell. She brushed them away hastily, 
feeling more and more miserable; and then 
pressing her hot little face against the cool 
glass, she tried to reason herself into cheer- 
fulness again. 

“P’raps Mr. Hastings will have prayers. 
That has made me feel wicked all day, be- 
cause we ought to have had them this morn- 
ing. I knew we ought. And I shan’t have 
to look after the boys if he is here. Oh, I do 
hope he will be nice!” 

She started and turned round. The subject 
of her thoughts was entering the room. 


46 


CHERRY 


“Hullo, little woman! You here all alone? 
I was told I could get a cup of tea here. 
Where are your brothers?’^ 

Cherry looked frightened. 

“I don’t know,” she said. 

“We must have a bell rung for them.” 

He left the room, and gave the order to 
Nettie. Coming back, his quick eyes saw the 
tear-stains on Cherry’s face. 

“You have a pretty home,” he said cheer- 
fully, coming to the window and looking out. 
“I hear that you only came here yesterday. 
Do you like it?” 

Cherry nodded ; then truthfulness com- 
pelled her to add: 

“Only a little.” 

“It is strange to you, isn’t it?” 

Cherry hardly heard what he said. She 
was morbidly conscientious, and the matter 
of family prayers was really troubling her. 
Now was her opportunity if she could get it 
out. 

She spoke jerkily, with a crimson flush 
mounting to her forehead: 

“Will you have prayers in the morning like 
auntie did?” 

Mr. Hastings looked rather surprised, but 
he spoke quite naturally. 

“Oh, yes, I suppose so, if it is the usual 
thing. I did in London with my last pupils. 
You must let me tell you about them. Ah, 


THEIR TUTOR 


47 

here come the boys ! Now let us have some 
tea.” 

Mr. Hastings and Bonnie were the only 
ones at perfect ease through that meal; but he 
charmed the boys by his funny stories, and 
Bonnie added her quaint remarks to them; 
so that they began to feel more at home. 
Before the evening was over, Stacy an- 
nounced in his final tone: 

“He isn’t half a bad sort of fellow, and if 
he’s as good at cricket as he makes out, 
he’ll do!” 


lY 


THEIR COUSIN 

It was astonishing how soon the little 
St. Legers settled down into their new life. 
They saw very little of their father, and Mr. 
Hastings found himself obliged to solve every 
domestic difficulty. Bonnie was the only one 
who had free access to her father’s room; 
her constant formula now was, “Me and 
father thinks,” etc., and the boys could not 
crush her by their sarcastic remarks. Cherry 
was an enigma to her tutor. Sometimes 
tearing about with the boys, a little wild 
daring creature, apparently without a care 
or thought ; sometimes crouched up in some 
quiet corner of the house or garden, looking 
the picture of anxiety and despair. She was 
quick at her lessons, and gave no trouble in 
the schoolroom. Bonnie only appeared for 
an hour or so in the morning. She was a 
real trial to the young man. He had never 
taught so small a child before, and could not 
understand her. Lessons with the boys were 
more to his liking. They went on steadily 
from nine to twelve, and two to four every 
day, with the exception of Saturday, when 


THEIR COUSIN 


49 


only two hours’ work was done in the morn- 
ing. Mr. Hastings was with his pupils for 
every meal. At eight o’clock he dined with 
the Colonel ; the little girls were then in bed, 
and the boys were — supposed to follow half 
an hour later. The rest of the evening the 
tutor had to himself, and on the whole, he 
enjoyed his life. The only two members of 
the household who heartily disliked each 
other, and with whom was constant friction, 
were Abercrombie and Goff. 

Their nationalities had much to do with it, 
Goff was Irish, Abercrombie Scotch, and long 
and excited discussions were held between 
them on matters political and personal. The 
boys delighted in pitting them one against 
the other. 

“A,B,C,” as they nicknamed the old gar- 
dener, was perhaps the bitterest in spirit. 

“They be all the same,” said he with an 
ominous sniff, when Goff had dehvered some 
message from his master in a light and airy 
tone. “For stability o’ purpose an’ raal true 
power o’ brain, they be unco’ wantin’ ! ’Tis 
a flippitty laugh here, an’ a wrigglin’ out o’ 
responsibility there, an’ a dancin’ through 
life wi’oot breakin’ the crust thereof; an’ as 
for truth an’ righteousness, they be as far 
from it as the east be from the west!” 

“Goff,” said Phil, “do you know what 
A,B,C thinks of you?” 

4 


so 


CHERRY 


sure I do, Master Phil. ’Tis a fool 
ontoirely he’ll be makin’ me ! But sorra 
meself would I be, to be sich a long-faced 
wooden-headed figure for iver pullin’ the 
lips together in case a joke might widen 
’em!” 

Goff was of course the favorite with the 
boys. When not attending on his master, he 
would tell them the most entrancing jungle 
tales that they had ever heard ; and he was 
always in a good temper, and ready to do 
anything he could for the young master. 

But Cherry liked the old gardener. She 
and Bonnie were always in the little en- 
closure that they called “mother’s garden,” 
and the old man loved to see them there. 

One afternoon they had been playing with 
their dolls, when Abercrombie came on the 
scene. 

He was stooping to look at the small 
cherry tree, when Cherry said: 

“Will there be cherries on it soon, do you 
think?” 

He shook his head doubtfully. 

“I canna mak’ it out. It hath ne’er borne 
fruit yet, an’ the apple an’ pear are doing 
verra weal indeed, even the ploom tree bore 
last autumn ; but ne’er a blossom or a cherry 
have coom to this little tree.” 

“Has it never had cherries?” questioned 
Cherry anxiously. 


THEIR COUSIN 


51 

“Never, was the solemn reply. “But may 
be ’twill coom one day!” 

The little girls were having a delightful 
wash of their dolls’ clothes in a small stream 
that trickled by, but when Abercrombie had 
passed. Cherry jumped up, exclaiming: 

“I’m tired of washing, Bonnie, I’m going 
to sit on mother’s seat. I want to think.” 

“And I’ll wash Dinah now,” said Bonnie 
cheerfully. “I will bathe her in the sea, and 
nearly drown her!” 

Cherry sat down to her thoughts. How 
was it she always had such sad ones now? 
she dimly wondered. She almost wished she 
had never been told about cumberers. Here 
was her dear little tree a real cumberer, and 
in an inexplicable fashion she identified it 
with herself. She was a cumberer of course, 
for her tree was one, Stacy, Phil, and Bon- 
nie all were bearing fruit. 

“I wonder if God could possibly alter us,” 
she said, looking up into the blue sky above 
her. “How I wish I knew how to grow 
fruit ! It seems to be doing good to some one. 
I wonder who I could do good to, and how 
I could do it! I know giving poor people 
money, and food and clothes is doing good, 
but I don’t know any poor people— not really 
ragged miserable ones — and if I did, I have 
nothing to give them. I wish I could ask 
some one about it.” 


52 


CHERRY 


She turned at last to Bonnie. 

“Bonnie, how can we do good?’' 

Bonnie turned at her sister’s voice. Her 
curls were dripping with water, her pinafore 
splashed with the same. 

She sat down on the grass to consider, and 
folded her fat chubby arms in imitation of 
her father. 

“We must be like the darling little angels,” 
she said emphatically. 

“We can’t be like them, because we’re not 
in heaven ! And it isn’t being good I mean, 
its doing good — we must do something.” 

“Go without sugar and put it in the Mis- 
sion’ry box,” suggested Bonnie promptly; 
“that’s what auntie used to do when she 
was a little girl.” 

“She didn’t put the sugar in the box, it 
was money,” corrected Cherry. “I don’t 
really think you can do good without money, 
and no one seems to give us any here.” 

She got up with a sigh, and sauntered 
away. 

At tea that evening she found courage to 
broach the subject to Mr. Hastings. 

“What is the easiest way to do good, 
please?” she asked. 

“You’re going to be a prig. Cherry; mind 
your P’s and Q’s and do what I tell you 
a/ ways,” said Stacy, speaking with his 
mouth full of bread and jam. 


THEIR COUSIN 


53 

“Invent a machine to fly with,’’ said Phil 
— “at least” — hastily correcting himself-- 
“that wouldn’t be the easiest way of doing 
good, but it would be a stunning thing to 
do.” 

“Explain yourself a little further. Cherry,” 
said Mr. Hastings, looking at her kindly. 

“I don’t mean being good,” said Cherry; 
“something better— doing somebody, or 
something good.” 

“Well, look here. I was wanting to give 
you each an essay to write to-morrow. 
How would it be to take that subject? 
‘Being good, and doing good.’ Find out all 
you can about it, think it out, and write it 
down.” 

The boys made grimaces. 

“It’s only Cherry’s rot. Give us some- 
thing else.” 

“No, we’ll stick to this. Men want good- 
ness quite as much as women ; perhaps 
more.” 

“Cherry, come here, and let me punch your 
head,” said Stacy, after tea was over, and 
Mr. Hastings had left the room. “We’re not 
going to have you choosing what lessons we 
shall do at tea-time!” 

“I didn’t ‘choose them,’” said Cherry, 
edging toward the door. There was a rush 
at her, a scamper down-stairs, and by the 
time pursuer and pursued had got half-way 


CHERRY 


54 

across the garden, they had forgotten the 
origin of the chase. 

But the next afternoon found them silently 
writing their essays under Mr. Hastings’ 
keen and watchful eye. When the papers 
were finished, their tutor read them aloud : 

This was Stacy’s: 

“Goodness. On Being Good, and Doing Good. 

“A,B,C says no one is good, but ‘every man is vile.’ 
So it does not seem any use writing about it, so I will 
go on to my second subject which is doing good. GofF 
says it is doing a good turn to your neighbor, and he 
knew a man who lost his father and gave his last loaf 
of bread to a beggar, and the beggar turned out to be 
his father who was a miser, and who had a heap of 
money in the bank, so he told his son who he was, and 
that he might have the money as a reward, and then 
he died, and the son lived happy ever after. That is the 
way to do good, and some people build hospitals, and 
some set slaves free, and fighting a fellow who is a 
bully and a mean sneak is doing good, and this is the 
way I mean to do it. 

“EUSTACE ST. LEGER.” 

Mr. Hastings made no remark on this, but 
went on to Phil’s. 

“Goodness. On Being Good, and Doing Good. 

“Eustace has got his essay all from A,B,C and Goff 
which is not fair. Grown-up people talk of goodness, 
they can be good very easily, for they can always do 
what they like, and have to obey nobody. If you want 
to be good you must sit on a chair in a room with the 
door shut. You must keep your feet from kicking and 


THEIR COUSIN 


55 

you must read a Sunday book. If you keep on at this 
all day, you cannot do anything wrong. To do good 
is more differcult. Doctors do most good in the world, 
and clergymen. I mean to do good by invenshuns. I 
am making one now. It is a kind of spring trap that 
takes food to your mouth, if you happen to have no 
hands. This is all. 

“PHILIP ST. LEGER.” 

Then Cherry’s came, and her little face 
flushed crimson as Mr. Hastings read it out. 

“Goodness. On Being Good and Doing Good. 

“It is very hard to be good. God is good, and He 
wants us to be good too, but we forget to be good. He 
does not want people and trees in His garden if they do 
no good. The best way is to get some money and do 
good with it. Do not spend it on sweets. If you have 
no money it is very hard, for you have nothing to do 
good with. Mrs. Tipkins told me that Mother always 
did good where she went. She used to visit sick people. 
I shall do this when I grow up. Children cannot do 
good, but I think they can be a little good if they try 
very hard. 

“CHERRY ST. LEGER.” 

‘‘Very fairly written all of them,” said Mr. 
Hastings. “As I haven’t written an essay, I 
think I will give you mine in a few words. 
You must be good before you can do any 
real good. Remember this, because it will 
save you a lot of trouble when you get 
older. Being good is having your heart 
right, doing good follows naturally. A kind 


CHERRY 


56 

word and look does more good sometimes 
than giving a hundred pounds away in 
charity. And every child can do good by 
tr3ring to please others before themselves. 
Ask God above to help you to be good and 
do good every day of your lives. I am not 
going to preach a sermon, so I shall say no 
more.” 

Cherry listened with open mouth to her 
tutor’s words. She went to bed that night 
with the firm resolve to please everybody she 
came across the next day, and she got up 
the next morning feeling in a very virtuous 
frame of mind. But just as lessons were com- 
mencing, something happened which entirely 
put aside her good intentions. This was a 
summons from her father to his room. Bon- 
nie brought the message. 

“Father wants you quite d’reckly. Cherry. 
Goff has gone away to see his brother, and 
me and father thinks it will be drefful all day 
without him.” 

Cherry slipped into her father’s room with 
a palpitating heart. She often envied Bonnie 
her assurance in pattering in and out of that 
sacred room without a tremor. She had not 
seen much of her father yet; and still looked 
upon him as a being to be reverenced and 
worshipped. 

He was on his couch by the window, in an 
Eastern-looking dressing-gown. 


THEIR COUSIN 


57 

‘‘Come here, Cherry. I want to speak to 
you.” 

Cherry advanced a little shyly. 

“Now listen. I have just received a letter 
from a lady who says she is coming to call 
on me this morning before lunch. I never see 
any visitors, and at such a time I shall not 
be able to see her. She is a cousin of mine, 
and wants to see you and Bonnie. So Mr. 
Hastings will have to excuse you your les- 
sons this morning. You can sit in the draw- 
ing-room with her, and take her into the 
garden, but you are not to bring her near 
my room, and tell her I am not well enough to 
see anybody to-day. Entertain her nicely, but 
keep her away from me, do you understand?” 

If Cherry had been ten years older, she 
might have done so. As it was, she was 
terror-stricken. Was this one of the things 
that she, as her father’s eldest daughter, 
would have to do? 

But she bravely stifled her fears. 

“Yes, father. When will she come?” 

“I don’t know. Anna was always erratic. 
She may be here any minute. Can you get 
my newspaper off that table? That’s it. 
Now leave me ; run out into the garden, and 
directly she arrives give her my message. 
Say I am sorry I am not well enough to see 
her to-day. It is most unlucky Goff should 
be away.” 


CHERRY 


58 

Cherry took Bonnie by the hand and went 
out to the broad stone steps outside the hall 
door. She sat down in the sun there and 
waited, wondering how she could talk to a 
grown-up-person whom she had never seen. 
She began to prepare her conversation be- 
forehand. 

“Bonnie, do you remember what auntie 
used to say first of all to ladies who came 
to see her? Didn’t she say, ‘It is a fine 
day’?” 

“I expect she did,” assented Bonnie cheer- 
fully. “Dear God is hotting the sun this 
morning isn’t He? How does He make it so 
hot. Cherry? Does he cook it by a fire? My 
legs are quite tickling with it ; let us get into 
the cool.” 

“And then auntie would say, ‘All well at 
home, I hope.’ Oh, Bonnie, I do hope I 
shan’t forget how to speak!” 

“I’ll speak for you, and tell her lots.” 

They had not to wait long. A smart car- 
riage and pair soon drove up the drive. A 
footman got down and came up the steps. 

He was about to ring the bell, when Cherry 
stopped him. 

“Father is sorry he isn’t able to see you,” 
she said confusedly; “he isn’t well.” 

The footman looked down at her a little 
superciliously. He put out his hand to the 
bell, when a shrill voice from the carriage 


THEIR COUSIN 


59 

stopped him; and the next minute the door 
opened, and a very stout lady came busthng 
up the steps. 

“That will do, John. My dears, give me a 
kiss. I have been so astonished with your 
father’s extraordinary conduct, that I have 
come in person to see how things are going. 
Eustace always was queer, but this beats 
anything he did in the old days. Now, which 
are you? Christ obel and Louisa I suppose? 
Where is your father? Take me to him at 
once. I only got home from Paris last night, 
so I have not lost much time in coming. 
How he can have established himself and his 
family down here without any reference to 
us, I can’t imagine ! I suppose everjrthing is 
at sixes and sevens.” 

She talked without stopping till she had 
got inside the drawing-room. Cherry gravely 
took a seat opposite her, and waited for her 
to finish. Then she remarked with wonder- 
ful composure: 

“It is a very fine day to-day.” 

The speech which cost poor Cherry so 
much, sounded like calm audacity in the ears 
of her visitor. 

“Mercy! What are children coming to, I 
wonder I Have you no servants here? Who 
looks after you? Now either bring your 
father to me, or take me to him.” 

“Father says,” said Cherry, slipping off 


6o 


CHERRY 


her chair in her nervousness and excitement ; 
“he says he is not well enough to see you 
to-day, and he is sorry. 

“What is the matter with him? What 
doctor is attending him? Dear, dear, he 
must want a woman to look after things. 
Where is your father? W^ho is nursing him? 
Show me his room.” 

Cherry’s eyes grew big with fright. But 
Bonnie came to her rescue. 

“Father telled Cherry she wasn’t to bring 
you near his room; he telled us to talk to 
you. He doesn’t see nobody when he’s in his 
dressing-gown, except me and Goff. And he 
saw Cherry this morning, because he wanted 
to tell her of you.” 

“And father can’t see you,” repeated 
Cherry more firmly. 

Mrs. Crawford, for such was her name, 
looked distinctly annoyed. She had hardly 
been accustomed to be treated so cavalierly, 
and to be withstood by two such tiny chil- 
dren. 

She was heated with her drive, and per- 
turbed by her welcome, and now untied her 
bonnet-strings, gazing about her restlessly, 
while she considered what to do. 

There was a pause. Cherry in agony of 
mind thought it her duty to make the next 
remark. 

“Are all well at home?” she asked. 


THEIR COUSIN 6i 

Mrs. Crawford turned her eyes upon her 
with interest. 

^‘Are you five or fifty, I wonder,” she said, 
a queer little smile coming to her lips. “Well, 
as Eustace is determined not to see me to- 
day, I shall take the liberty of looking over 
his house. Wlio manages you all here?” 

Cherry’s face was crimson. What was 
wrong with her remarks that this strange 
lady ignored them so? she wondered. She 
answered nervously: 

“Mr. Hastings teaches us lessons.” 

“Ah! Then there is some kind of responsi- 
ble person to whom I can speak. Take me 
to him.” 

Cherry was obe 3 ring this request, when 
Mrs. Tipkins appeared in the hall. She 
seemed to know Mrs. Crawford, and made 
her an odd little bow. 

“So you are promoted to be cook, and 
housekeeper, and everything else combined,” 
said Mrs. Crawford briskly to her. “If I had 
not been abroad when your master settled 
himself here, I should have, of course, been 
here arranging matters. Is there absolutely 
no lady in charge? Who looks after these 
little girls?” 

“I do, mem,” said Mrs. Tipkins a little 
grandly; “leastways we and Mr. Hastings 
divides that honor!” 

“I am going to see Mr. Hastings now. 


62 


CHERRY 


Afterward I will pay you a visit in your 
kitchen, Mrs. Tipkins.” 

Mrs. Tipkins did not look particularly 
pleased at this prospect, but she said noth- 
ing, and Mrs. Crawford followed Cherry 
up-stairs to the schoolroom, where they 
found the boys engaged in doing sums. 

Mrs. Crawford sailed into the room with 
great dignity, though she was a little breath- 
less by her ascent. 

She bowed in a very gracious way to Mr. 
Hastings, who drew forward a chair for her, 
and concealed his surprise at her appearance. 

‘‘Glad to make your acquaintance, Mr. 
Hastings. Are these your pupils? Shake 
hands with me, my dears, for I am your 
cousin.” 

Stacy and Phil stared at her in astonish- 
ment. 

“I have come over to see the Colonel, Mr. 
Hastings, but he does not appear well 
enough to see me. I am his nearest relative, 
and live about seven miles off. I could 
hardly believe my ears when I heard he had 
returned from India and opened this house 
again. I only heard of it quite accident- 
ally. May I ask how long you have been 
here?” 

Mr. Hastings answered that question, and 
many others, with great composure. The 
children listened ; then withdrew to the 


THEIR COUSIN 63 

farther end of the room, to make their own 
remarks. 

“She’s too old to be a cousin,” announced 
Phil. “I only hope she speaks the truth. 
Cousins are always the same age. She 
ought to be an aunt, or a grandmother.” 

“She calls father ‘Eustace,’” said Cherry; 
“and he called her ‘Anna.’ ” 

“Of course she is his cousin; not ours.” 

“Father’s cousin is mine,” said Bonnie im- 
petuously. “We belongs to each other. His 
mothers, and fathers, and aunts, and uncles, 
they all is mine, just the same!” 

“Father doesn’t want to see her,” said 
Cherry slowly; “and she wants to see him. 
It is rather differcult!” 

“What is?” demanded Stacy; “you’ve noth- 
ing to do with it!” 

“Yes, I have. Father sent for me to say I 
was to keep her away from him!” 

Cherry raised her voice in her excitement, 
and Mrs. Crawford caught her words. 

She laughed a little. 

“There you see, Mr. Hastings! That is 
how I am treated. I, who nursed my dear 
husband through six successive illnesses, be- 
fore he died ! But men are always very queer 
when they are ill. You see an extraordinary 
household. How many servants are there, 
may I ask?” 

Mr. Hastings told her. She did not ap- 


CHERRY 


64 

pear satisfied, and finally rustled out of the 
room to interview Mrs. Tipkins again. She 
stayed a good hour, during which time she 
thoroughly overlooked the whole household, 
even to the extent of the children’s ward- 
robes, and drove Nettie to tears by showing 
her socks and stockings which sadly needed 
mending. 

When she finally came down-stairs she 
found Cherry sitting outside her father’s 
door. 

“Mounting guard, are you?” she said pleas- 
antly. “Tell your father I will come over 
and see you all one day next week, when I 
hope he will be well enough to entertain me. 
Until then, good-by!” 

She stooped and kissed her, and bustled 
out of the door. As the carriage rolled 
away Cherry heard her father call her. 

She stepped into his room timidly. 

“Has she gone?” 

“Yes, father.” 

The Colonel looked at his little daughter 
with a smile. 

“It is not many who get the better of your 
Cousin Anna,” he said. “Whatever you are. 
Cherry, when you grow up, don’t you be a 
managing woman! If every one left their 
neighbors’ affairs alone, and attended to 
themselves, it would be a better world.” 

Cherry pondered over this all the rest of 


THEIR COUSIN 


65 

that day. What ‘‘father’’ said must of course 
be right. Doing good to others was not 
always right, then. It was better to leave 
them alone. 

How very puzzling the ways of the world 
were ! How could she ever understand them? 
5 


Y 


THEIR ADVENTURE 

It was Saturday afternoon. Mr. Hastings 
had been obliged to go into the neighboring 
town on business, and the children were left 
alone. 

They were out on the lawn, lying under 
the shade of an old elm. It was a very 
warm day. The boys were in their flannels ; 
they had been playing cricket, and were tired 
enough to like a rest. 

“We must think of something to do,” said 
Stacy, sitting up with his back against a 
tree, and with what Phil called his “war 
look” on his face. 

“It’s awfully dull with no fellows about,” 
grumbled Phil. “Of course I’m glad we don’t 
have grown-ups bothering round us; but 
then grown-ups do have boys of their own 
sometimes.” 

“Yes, I think father is rather like one of 
those hermits we read about. Goff said to- 
day, ‘The Colonel would be better for com- 
pany.’ He said it to Mrs. Tipkins, and she 
said, ‘Ah! ’tis very true, Mr. Goff, but he is 
the unsociable kind, an’ it’s a real pity, for 


THEIR ADVENTURE 67 

there be many nice people hereabout.’ I 
should like to know some, I think; at least 
if there are any chaps about our age, I 
should.” 

“Let us have a game of ‘follow my leader,’ ” 
suggested Cherry. 

“We must toss for the leader,” said Phil. 

Stacy won, fortunately, and he rose to the 
bait. 

“Come on,” he said; and for the nextha If 
hour they were racing through the garden, 
leaping flower-beds, scaling fences, and doing 
everything that in the ordinary course of 
events they would not. 

They finally made their way into the farm- 
yard. A small cart and pony, used for tak- 
ing parcels and coals to and from the station, 
stood in the yard. On the impulse of the 
moment, Stacy jumped into it, and the others 
were after him directly. When Bonnie had 
been helped up, Stacy took the reins, and 
drove the pony out of the yard. He touched 
him with the whip, and he set off at a sharp 
trot down the lane. It was a novel expe- 
rience, and Bonnie clapped her hands with 
delight. 

“We’re going out for a drive,” she said. 
“Let’s drive round and round the world!” 

“We’ll see the country a bit,” said Stacy, 
sitting up and adopting a very manly air. 

Phil looked at him thoughtfully. He knew 


68 


CHERRY 


his brother had never driven before. Dr. 
Burton had oceasionally taken him out in 
his carriage and let him hold the reins, but 
this was very seldom. 

“Mind you hold him in, if he runs away,” 
he remarked, then settled down to enjoy him- 
self. Cherry and Bonnie thought it great 
fun. They came out on the high-road, and 
another flicker of the whip made the pony 
canter on merrily. They passed the village, 
and station ; and soon came to wooded lanes 
that enchanted the little girls. 

“Do stop, Stacy, there’s a lovely wild rose 
coming out, and oh, what a lot of dear little 
ferns!” 

“I’m not going to stop yet,” said Stacy, 
“for any roses or ferns. HuUoo, here’s a big 
carriage coming!” 

He nearly precipitated the cart into the 
ditch, so anxious was he to avoid a collision ; 
but Phil exclaimed: 

“It’s the old fat cousin of father’s! Hurry 
up, or she will see us!” 

That made Stacy nervous. However, he 
righted the cart, and then hearing a sudden 
call, whipped up his horse at once. Mrs. 
Crawford had seen them, and signing to her 
coachman to turn round, she called out: 

“Stop at once, children, do you hear me? 
I want to speak to you!” 

A race ensued. Phil took off his hat and 


THEIR ADVENTURE 69 

waved “hurrah!” The little pony was fresh 
and vigorous ; the heavy carriage behind 
could not overtake them. Stacy turned up a 
side lane, then down another, and it was 
only when the pony showed signs of fatigue 
that he pulled up. 

“I knew her old carriage wouldn’t follow 
us down here. What was she wanting to 
stop us for, I should like to know.” 

“She looked very angry,” said Cherry. 
“I think perhaps we ought to go home, 
Stacy.” 

“So we will directly, but I’m not going to 
meet her again, and this lane is too narrow 
to turn in. It must come out somewhere, 
so we must just go on.” 

The lane was a very long one. It wound 
up-hill, and when they at least reached the 
end of it, they found themselves confronted 
by three different roads. There was no sign- 
post. After a little hesitation Stacy turned 
down the one to the left. 

“We’ll ask the first person we meet if we 
are on the way home,” he said. 

But they met no one for miles. The road 
seemed at times Httle more than a grass 
track. Stacy began to look uneasy. Phil 
began to discourse in his argumentative 
way. 

“You see, the road was made to lead some- 
where ; we must go on till we get to a house ; 


CHERRY 


70 

roads never lead nowhere unless there’s a 
board ‘No Thoroughfare.’ And if there’s a 
house, there’s sure to be some one in it, and 
they will tell us where we are.” 

“Are we lost?” inquired Bonnie, with sud- 
den interest. 

“Of course not,” said Stacy impatientl3^ 
“How can you be lost on a high-road in a 
horse and cart?” 

“We aren’t exactly in a horse,” argued 
Phil. 

Cherry was very comfortable. She was 
never anxious if she had no responsibility. 
She sat at the bottom of the cart looking 
out at the fresh green foliage, at the after- 
noon sun sending golden slanting rays across 
some thin dark belts of pine trees which 
edged the road, and listening to the sweet 
and joyous notes of the birds. She was al- 
most asleep, when suddenly without any 
warning there was a grating noise, and a 
shock. Stacy had not been looking where he 
was going, and had driven over a huge 
boulder of granite by the side of the road. 
The wheel stuck ; the brave little pony tried 
to free the cart, but all without success. 
Stacy and Phil in disgust got out, and tried 
to move it. 

“Something is broken, but I don’t know 
what,” Stacy announced; “you girls had 
better get out.” 


THEIR ADVENTURE 


71 

“Now what shall we do?” was the next 
question they asked each other. 

“We’ll have to camp out like gypsies for 
the night,” said Phil excitedly. “We must 
unharness the pony, and tie him to a tree; 
and then we’ll make a fire, and cook by it, 
and we’U tip the cart up, and go to sleep in 
it. It will be jolly!” 

Stacy rubbed his head, as he had seen 
Abercrombie do, very doubtfully. 

“We’ve nothing to cook,” he said looking 
round. 

“That’s just the best of it. We shall have 
to catch a rabbit or some fish. It’s a regu- 
lar adventure. Here is a pine wood close at 
hand, and plenty of cones to make a fire 
with. It’s like that chap who ran away 
from school told us he did. Only he hadn’t 
a cart and horse. You can do anything 
with them.” 

Then Stacy brightened up. 

“Of course,” he said; “I’m an awful chump. 
You must stay here and take care of the 
girls, Phil, and I’ll ride on with the pony to 
find out where we are. Then I’ll come back. 
I can easily get home on the pony.” 

“Yes, but we can’t,” argued Phil, “and we 
had much better stay altogether.” 

But Stacy would not be persuaded. The 
prospect of a ride filled him with delight. He 
made Phil help him to unharness the poor 


CHERRY 


72 

pony, who feeling he deserved a rest was 
contentedly munching some grass in the 
hedge ; and then mounting his steed, and tak- 
ing the whip in his hand, he set off at a 
smart trot along the road. 

Phil looked after him rather crossly; then 
determined to make himself master of the 
situation. 

‘‘I shouldfft wonder if he has a spill, he 
remarked. “He is jogging up and down 
awfully. Now, Cherry, you and Bonnie must 
collect some sticks and fir cones. I will try 
and pull the cart round in this corner, and 
then when we’ve made our fire. I’ll go out, 
and hunt for some supper.” 

“And shall we have to stay here when it 
is dark?” asked Cherry. 

“Oh, yes. I don’t expect Stacy back at all. 
He doesn’t know his way, and the pony is 
tired out. He won’t have half the fun we 
shall have.” 

“And what will poor father do?” asked 
Bonnie. 

“He won’t know where we are. He won’t 
ask, and Hastings isn’t coming back till 
awfully late to-night. We’re all right. It 
will be great!” 

It certainly was very pleasant in the sun- 
shine. It was still and warm, and the little 
girls thoroughly enjoyed their task. Dry 
leaves, pine needles and cones, with sticks of 


THEIR ADVENTURE 


73 

all sorts and sizes soon made a formidable 
pile. Phil turned out his poekets eagerly for 
a mateh. He was half afraid for a minute 
that he had not one ; but amongst a medley 
of strings, buttons, marbles, eorks, and pins, 
he found two wax matehes. One mateh was 
a failure, it went out before it aceomplished 
its mission ; but the other suceeeded. A little 
tiny flame ran through the dry leaves, then 
gradually spread, attaeking eones and stieks 
with a right good will. 

Bonnie danced round it, clapping her 
hands. 

‘‘IPs a beautiful bonfire!” 

“But what is it for?” asked Cherry. 

“Oh,” said Phil vaguely. “Gypsies and 
people out of doors always have fires. Trav- 
ellers do too. It keeps oflf wild beasts, and 
you cook hot suppers over it. Besides, it 
gives you light when it gets dark.” 

“I’m so hungry,” said Bonnie. 

“Well, now we have to hunt for something 
to eat. I think you had better sit down and 
keep up the fire, and I will look about for a 
river or stream that has fish in it. I’ll just 
make my line first. Cherry, just look about 
for a worm, will you?” 

Phil sat down, and in a most businesslike 
manner began tying his different bits of 
string together. At the end of them he at- 
tached a bent pin, and he cut a stout stick 


CHERRY 


74 

from some hazel bushes near to form a rod. 
But it was a long time before a worm eould 
be found ; and at last he said he would wait 
no longer. 

“I shall get one easily down by the river, 
he said. 

Cherry begged to aeeompany him. 

“Oh, no, I may meet with adventure, and 
you are safer here. I shall be rather a long 
time, but there must be water somewhere, 
and if there is a stream, it may lead to a 
river, and if there is a river, there will be 
fish.” 

“And if there is a fish, will you be able to 
eateh it?” questioned Cherry. 

Phil would not deign to reply. He scam- 
pered off through the wood close to them. 
Cherry sat down by the fire, and began to 
feel lonely. Presently she joined Bonnie in 
flower-picking. Time crept on ; shadows be- 
gan to lie deeper round them; the sun sank 
out of sight, but kindly left some of his rosy 
rays to cheer them; still even they faded at 
last, and dusky twilight set in. 

“Oh, Cherry, we must go home,” said Bon- 
nie entreatingly. “IVe never seen the middle 
of the night, and it’s coming so fast. I don’t 
like it at all.” 

When Bonnie’s cheerfulness deserted her. 
Cherry always fell into black despair. She 
struggled to be brave. 


THEIR ADVENTURE 


75 

‘‘Sit by me, Bonnie, we’ll come close to the 
fire. Let’s put some more of these dear little 
cones on it, and make it blaze. I expect 
Phil will be back d’rectly!” 

Bonnie crept close to her sister, then put 
her curly head down on her lap. 

“Dear God won’t let the dark hurt us, will 
He? He knows quite well I don’t like it.” 

Before Cherry could frame a suitable reply, 
Bonnie’s sleepy eyes had closed, and she was 
fast asleep. 

The dusk began to deepen. Cherry sat 
looking straight before her, with open, terror- 
stricken eyes. 

What was it Phil said about the fire? “It 
kept off wild beasts.” Were there wild beasts 
in this part of the country? Not lions or 
tigers certainly, but there might be wolves, 
and she was sure she had heard of foxes, and 
Goff had talked of ferrets that killed rabbits, 
little sharp-nosed creatures with dreadful 
teeth ! Supposing they should come by now? 
Poor little Cherry ! Her heart thumped and 
throbbed ; her head began to swim ; she was 
panic-stricken. Oh, why did the boys leave 
them? she wondered. It was cruel ! It was 
unkind ! She felt angry with Bonnie for go- 
ing to sleep so comfortably, and leaving her 
to sit up and watch alone. She thought of 
calling for Phil, but felt too frightened to 
utter a sound. 


CHERRY 


76 

“Phil must be lost, and Stacy must be lost, 
and Bonnie and I are lost, and no one will 
ever find us!” she said to herself dismally. 
Then the story of the Babes in the Wood 
came to her mind. 

“They wandered in the wood for days and 
days, with nothing to eat, and at last they 
lay down and died, and the birds brought 
leaves and buried them up with them,” she 
repeated to herself with a little dry sob. 
“That’s just what will happen to me and 
Bonnie, if the wild beasts don’t eat us up.” 

Then suddenly she gave a violent start. A 
rabbit tore past her, and after it to her ter- 
ror came a huge brown creature with glaring 
eyes and open mouth. 

It was a wolf I That was her one thought, 
and she gave such a shriek of fright that 
Bonnie woke up. The creature had gone, 
but Cherry was shaking from head to 
foot. 

“Where is we? Is it morning?” demanded 
Bonnie confusedly. 

Cherry was on her feet, staring into the 
dusk before her. What was that moving? 
Yes, the wolf was coming back. It was com- 
ing straight toward them. 

“Oh, God, please help me to be brave 1” cried 
Cherry, then she threw her arm round her 
little sister and waited as she thought to be 
torn to pieces. She did not hear footsteps 


THEIR ADVENTURE 


77 

approach, so was doubly startled when she 
heard a voice close to her. 

^‘Are you little girls here alone?” 

It was a lady in a short walking-skirt, 
who carried a stout stick in her hand. Then 
as Cherry’s “wolf” leapt up at her she beat 
him down with her hand. 

“Down, Oscar, down! Don’t be afraid of 
my big dog, he won’t hurt you!” 

Cherry’s fortitude gave way. She caught 
hold of the lady’s dress, and began to 
sob. 

“I — I — thought he was a wolf!” 

The lady did not smile. Her voice, which 
had a sharp brisk ring in it, became wonder- 
fully gentle. 

“You poor little mites! I thought you 
were some tramp’s children when I saw you 
first, but I see I am mistaken. Don’t cry, 
dear, but tell me how you came here.” 

It was some minutes before Cherry was 
calm enough to tell her tale. She was trem- 
bling from head to foot. Bonnie tried to ex- 
plain, but she was half dazed with sleep, and 
was rather incoherent. 

“The boys have run away, and dear God 
putted me to sleep, and we’re going to be 
gypsies, but I wants father.” 

At last Cherry could speak. She gave a 
correct account of themselves, finishing up 
with: 


CHERRY 


78 

<‘WeVe all gone away from each other, and 
we shall never find each other again. Phil 
said we were to stay here. He went to 
catch fish for our supper.” 

“Phil is a little dunce! There are no fish 
in these parts. Is this your cart? I don’t 
know what I had better do with you. I am 
hurrying home myself I am not generally 
out so late, but my house is close at hand; 
you must come home with me.” 

“But what will the boys do?” said Cherry 
anxiously. 

“Bother the boys! They had no business 
to leave you two mites alone. It will serve 
them right, and teach them a lesson. I dare 
say they have found their way home by this 
time.” 

“Can’t we go home?” questioned Cherry. 

“My dear child, do you know you are a 
good ten miles away from Instanton? I 
know your father; at least I used to know 
him when I was a small girl. I was abroad 
when he settled down here first ; and I have 
only just heard of his return from India. 
You need not be afraid of me. I am not a 
stranger. And I will send a groom over to 
say where you are.” 

Cherry stood still with a perplexed look on 
her face. 

But suddenly a shout was heard, and Phil 
came running breathless through the wood. 


THEIR ADVENTURE 


79 


“Are you all right?” 

“It is no thanks to you that they are,” 
said the lady severely. “What do you mean 
by leaving your little sisters like this?” 

Phil was too out of breath to speak for a 
minute; then he began to defend himself 

“I wasn’t going to let them starve. That’s 
what I meant!” he said pertly. Then he 
turned to Cherry. 

“I couldn’t find any water anywhere, but 
after a long time I saw a house, and I went 
up, and the man was out and I waited, and 
the woman gave me a joUy meat pie to eat, 
and he came back, and he’s got a cart and 
horse, and he’s coming down the road as 
fast as he can for you. And he’ll take us 
home, and I expect we shall get there before 
Stacy. He’s a regular old dunderhead! I 
lost myself coming back to you, that’s why 
I’ve been such a long time!” 

Sure enough, the rumble of cart-wheels 
was making itself heard, and in a minute 
a man in a spring cart made his appear- 
ance. 

The lady turned to him. 

“Do you know where Instanton is?” she 
said. “It is a good ten miles away. These 
poor little girls are quite tired out. They 
are not fit to drive that distance without 
any food.” 

“Ay, mum, it be a longish drive, but the 


8o 


CHERRY 


young master were so determined, that I 
could only do my best.’^ 

He had got out and was examining the 
overturned cart. Phil stood anxiously by. 

^‘Is it broken?” he asked. 

“Ay, one of the springs be smashed.” 

The lady seemed to be considering. Then 
she pulled out her pocket-book, and tearing 
out a leaf, began to write hastily upon it. 

“There!” she said giving it to Phil. “Take 
that to your father. Tell him Blanche 
Arnold has met you, and has taken your 
little sisters to spend a day with her. Get 
into the cart, and go home as fast as you 
can. I am not going to let these poor chil- 
dren go with you. I will take care of them.” 

Phil looked at her stubbornly. 

“They aren’t your sisters,” he said; “they 
belong to me, and father doesn’t like stran- 
gers.” 

“Bless the boy 1 Ask your father if Blanche 
Arnold is a stranger. Give my note to him, 
that is all you have to do. Now come along, 
chicks, we have a very little way to walk.” 

She took hold of the little girls’ hands and 
marched them away. Phil felt he was being 
worsted. He climbed into the cart, and 
called out: 

“If you aren’t speaking true, my father is 
a colonel, and he’ll know how to treat you ! 
You weren’t wanted at all. Father hates 


THEIR ADVENTURE 8i 

people meddling, and I was going to take 
them home. I shall tell him so!’’ 

Phil was not by nature a rude boy, but his 
feelings were hurt by the interference of a 
stranger, when he thought he had managed 
so cleverly. 

Miss Arnold only laughed at him. She 
opened a little gate in the hedge, crossed a 
field, and then a large house came in view. 
Cherry was so tired that she had no very 
clear recollection of what followed. She was 
dimly conscious of lights and warmth, of 
swallowing a basin of bread and milk, and 
of being tucked up into a very comfortable 
bed and kissed. Then she remembered no 
more, for sleep overtook her. 

6 


VI 


A CUMBERER 

The next morning always remained very 
vividly in Cherry’s memory. She woke early, 
and found herself and Bonnie in a big four- 
post bed. The room was a large sunny one ; 
the chintz curtains were covered with bright 
birds and flowers. There was a large oil 
painting over the dressing-table, and this 
picture at once attracted her attention. It 
was the portrait of a little dark-haired girl 
in a white muslin frock and red coral beads 
round her neck. She was standing on some 
stone steps with white pigeons fluttering 
round her, and one pigeon was perched on 
her outstretched hand. Cherry looked at it 
with great admiration. The little girl looked 
rosy and happy, the pigeons evidently loved 
her, and Cherry wondered if she was still 
alive somewhere. Presently she crept out of 
bed very quietly and pulled up the blind to 
look out of the window. It was a lovely 
morning, and the garden below seemed full 
of sweet-scented flowers; meadows of green 
grass lay all round it, and behind a little 
group of green lime trees the tower of the 
village church peeped out. The bells began 


A CUMBERER 


83 

to chime as she looked, and with a start 
she remembered it was Sunday. Bonnie 
stirred in bed, and then sat up rubbing her 
eyes. 

She looked very astonished at her sur- 
roundings, and Cherry had to come back to 
bed and explain things to her. 

“Where are we?” she persisted. “Are you 
sure we’re in England still?” 

Bonnie had just begun to learn geography, 
and the different countries puzzled her very 
much. 

“What will father say, when I can’t fill his 
pipe with his lovely tobacco?” she asked 
presently. “And where shall we have our 
breakfus?” 

A pleasant-looking maid soon entered to 
help them dress. But Cherry was distressed 
beyond measure when she saw her dirty, 
crumpled brown frock. 

“It is Sunday, Bonnie, and we’ve no white 
frocks !” 

“No, ’tis a pity,” assented the maid. “If 
you had clean pinneys, ’twould be all right, 
but you don’t look very grand.” 

Bonnie was too impatient to get to her 
breakfast to care. But when they came 
down the broad, softly carpeted stairs, and 
entered a large dining-room, with two men 
servants standing by the door, Cherry felt 
terrified. 


84 CHERRY 

Miss Arnold followed them in, and kissed 
her fears away. 

“I am so lonely, that your two dear little 
faces quite cheer me up. Did you sleep well? 
That is right. Now let us come to the table. 
Here is Oscar, you see, coming to make your 
acquaintance.” 

Cherry laid her small hand on the mastiff’s 
shaggy head with a smile. Yesterday with 
all its terror seemed like a bad dream. Bon- 
nie chatted in her own incoherent style 
through breakfast, and Miss Arnold sat 
listening and laughing. When they had fin- 
ished, she told them to get their hats and 
come out into the garden with her. She 
took them to see some young pheasants, and 
then turning a corner they came to the very 
same stone terrace that Cherry had seen in 
the picture. The pigeons were still flying 
about it, and Cherry almost expected to see 
the little girl in the white muslin frock come 
tripping along. Something in her face made 
Miss Arnold look at her. 

“What is it, dear? Are you expecting to 
see some one?” 

“Yes,” said Cherry breathlessly, “the little 
girl in the picture; the one that is in our 
bedroom with the pigeons all round her.” 

Miss Arnold smiled. 

“You are an observant child. Did the little 
girl take your fancy?” 


A CUMBERER 


85 


‘‘Oh, yes. Is she alive?’’ 

“Yes, very much so.” 

“Could I see her? Does she live here?” 

Cherry’s tone was eager. Miss Arnold 
looked amused, then a sad smile came to her 
lips. 

“You cannot see her as she is in that 
picture, for that is long ago. That child is 
running about no more. She has grown up 
into a lonely, discontented woman who has 
everything she wants, and yet never has 
enough.” 

Cherry looked up into her face wonder- 
ingly. 

“Yes, it seems very funny, doesn’t it? But 
that is a picture of myself long, long 
ago.” 

“Were you that little girl?” gasped Cherry. 

“Indeed I was. I remember a grand artist 
coming down here to paint my picture, and 
how difficult it was to stand still until he 
began to tell me a wonderful fairy story. 
Then I was ready to stay there all day.” 

“I love fairy stories,” said Cherry; “did he 
tell you a nice one?” 

“Oh, the usual style, a very beautiful prin- 
cess, and a good prince, and a good and 
wicked fairy, and everything first going all 
wrong, and then all right. Not much like 
life, I fancy ; but I suppose you children think 
it is. My experience is that things first go 


86 CHERRY 

right, and end all wrong. But you won’t 
understand me.” 

Cherry did not attempt to do so. 

“Now,” continued Miss Arnold, altering her 
tone, and speaking in her usual cheerful one, 
“I must go to church this morning, but you 
little ones can stay in the garden and play. 
Do you get into mischief as a rule if you 
have no one to look after you?” 

“We’ll try not to,” said Cherry; “and it is 
Sunday, so we will be very quiet.” 

“When are we going home?” asked Bon- 
nie. 

“I have not told you that I had a note 
from your father this morning saying he was 
quite willing that I should keep you till to- 
morrow.” 

“And is he angry with us?” 

“I hope he is angry with the boys, but not 
with you, I should think. Your father said 
your other brother had just arrived. I 
should give them a good whipping if I were 
your father!” 

The little girls looked quite aghast. Bon- 
nie hastened to say: 

“Father isn’t a cruel man at all, he’s quite 
gentle ; and he lies still and smiles at me, and 
father and me thinks a lot of things when 
we sit close. We thinks of dear God on 
Sundays always!” 

Miss Arnold looked at her curiously. 


A CUMBERER 


87 

“I should like to listen to your father’s 
thinks, when you are in his pockets. Good- 
by, little ones.” 

She was gone. 

“It’s very wicked not to go to church,” 
said Cherry thoughtfully; “but it is because 
of our dirty frocks, I’m sure.” 

“Is dear God angry?” 

“I expect He understands.” 

“Had we better explain it to Him?” 

Bonnie’s tone was anxious. 

“He knows, Bonnie. Shall we sit under 
those trees over there, and have church by 
ourselves?” 

This bright idea was carried into execution 
at once. Cherry was the clergyman, Bonnie 
the congregation. The service was rather in 
scraps ; sentences repeated from memory, the 
Lord’s Prayer said at three dijSerent times, 
and the Glorias sung whenever there was an 
awkward pause. Two hymns went very 
well, and then came the sermon. Cherry 
looked about for a pulpit, and then delight- 
edly swung herself up into the old oak tree 
close by. 

“Oh, that isn’t fair, let me come up too!” 
exclaimed Bonnie. 

“Hush, you are in a pew. The congrega- 
tion never comes into the pulpit. I’m going 
to give out my text, only I must climb a 
little higher first.” 


88 CHERRY 

“Climbing trees isn’t Sunday!” objected 
Bonnie. 

“It’s a pulpit. Now I’m right. I’ll take 
my text from the Bible. It is about a tree 
and a man, and the text is, ‘I come to look 
for fruit.’ ” 

Bonnie folded her arms and prepared to 
listen. Cherry, clasping a big bough with 
both hands, began to speak with much fer- 
vor. 

“This man had a tree, and three years long 
it had done nothing at all, it stood still, and 
wouldn’t have any fruit. It was a fig tree, 
and the figs wouldn’t come. The gardener 
shook his head at it, and the tree didn’t 
seem to mind much, until one day the master 
came, and said, Tt is doing nothing, cut it 
down.’ Then the tree got frightened, but the 
gardener said, ‘Please, sir, not just yet ! Per- 
haps it will do better soon.” And then the 
master went away, and the tree cried hard, 
but the figs wouldn’t come ; and every morn- 
ing when the tree woke up, he looked to see 
if he had any fruit, and then he cried because 
though he tried his hardest, the figs wouldn’t 
come.” 

Bonnie was deeply interested. She forgot 
it was a sermon. 

“Poor little tree! What a nice story, 
Cherry; do go on.” 

“And then,” said Cherry, “one day when 


A CUMBERER 


89 

it was crying, an angel came by. ‘ Wbat^s the 
matter?’ the angel said; so the tree told her; 
and she said, ‘Never mind, little tree. I’ll go 
back to heaven and see what I can do’; so 
she flew up and asked God about it, and then 
one night when the tree was fast asleep, the 
angel came back with a basket of figs, and 
she tied them on to the little tree, and when 
he woke up they were growing all over him.” 

“How dreadfully delicious!” cried Bonnie, 
clapping her hands. “What else?” 

“So by and by the gardener came along, 
and then the master came along, and the tree 
smiled all over, and the master looked very 
pleased. ‘It’s a good little tree after all,’ he 
said, and the tree was happy ever after.” 

There was a pause. 

“And now, dearly beloved, church is over, 
and I’m coming down.” 

Down she came very much faster than she 
went up, for she missed her footing, and fell 
with a heavy thud on the grass. Happily 
she had not very far to fab, and a grazed 
elbow and knee was the only result. 

“That’s a very nice story,” said Bonnie, 
“but it isn’t like the clergyman talks. Who 
told you that story. Cherry?” 

“It’s quite a Sunday story because it comes 
in the Bible. At least,” she added truthfully, 
“the beginning of it does, and I made up the 
end myself.” 


CHERRY 


90 

Bonnie sat for some minutes in deep 
thought; then she got up from her seat on 
the grass, and accompanied her sister to the 
poultry yard, where they spent the rest of 
the time watching the antics of some tiny 
ducks in a water-trough. 

Miss Arnold came home from church, and 
took them into luncheon with her. After it 
was over, she said: 

“Now I will take you into my fruit garden, 
and you shall pick some ripe gooseberries; 
then we will sit out on the lawn, and eat 
them, and you can tell me all about your- 
selves.” 

The children followed her delightedly 
through a little door in a high brick wall, 
and found themselves in a large old-fashioned 
garden surrounded by four high walls. Fruit 
trees were in profusion, trained along the 
ground, and up the walls, and in long rows 
by themselves. 

“You must come here when the strawber- 
ries are ripe,” said Miss Arnold; “it is a 
little too early yet; and then later on, we 
have peaches and apricots, and such a lot of 
plums. After that the apples and pears and 
nuts come. Do you see that funny little tree? 
That is a medlar, and that big tree in the 
middle is a mulberry.” 

“And have you a cherry tree?” 

“Oh, yes, lots; they will be ripe very soon.” 


A CUMBERER 


91 


^‘And a fig tree?” asked Bonnie. 

“Yes, those in that corner are the fig 
trees.” 

“Cherry has told me a lovely story about 
a fig tree,” said Bonnie, nodding excitedly. 
“And I’ll tell it to father when I see him!” 

“Have you a cumberer tree?” asked Cherry 
a little shyly. 

“What is that?” 

Cherry looked confused. 

“It’s a tree without fruit.” 

“Oh, there are plenty of trees without fruit 
in the other garden,” said Miss Arnold, won- 
dering what she meant. 

“No, but I mean a proper fruit tree, that 
is meant to have fruit but doesn’t do 
it.” 

“Oh, then I wouldn’t have it in my garden 
at all. It would be no good.” 

“Yes, of course, it wouldn’t be here.” 

Cherry’s tone was quite miserable. 

Bonnie had reached the gooseberry bushes, 
and was very busy trying to pick some 
without pricking herself But though Miss 
Arnold tried to incite Cherry to do the same, 
she was gazing in a dreamy way in front of 
her, and presently tears began to gather in 
her eyes. 

Miss Arnold had keen sight. She felt 
strangely drawn to this earnest-looking little 
maiden, and taking her hand in hers she left 


92 CHERRY 

Bonnie enjoying herself, and walked on with 
Cherry. 

“What is it, dear?’^ 

“Of course, I knew the Bible would be true, 
and I expect it was no use waiting ; the tree 
never did get any better.” 

“What tree, dear?” 

“The cumberer, in the Bible.” 

Miss Arnold looked completely puzzled. 

Cherry tried to explain. Her trouble which 
had been simmering so long in her mind 
seemed to-day to come uppermost, and 
nearly overwhelm her. 

“I’ve got a cumberer tree of my own,” she 
said, pulling a diminutive handkerchief out of 
her pocket and hastily drying her eyes. “I 
suppose A,B,C will cut it down soon. It’s 
no good, and it never wiU be, and I feel it’s 
just like me.” 

“But why is it like you?” 

“A clergyman told me not to be a cum- 
berer, and then I read about it, and A,B,C 
showed me the cherry tree that mother 
planted when I was born. It hasn’t got any 
cherries on it at all, and it never has had 
any, and Stacy’s and Phil’s and Bonnie’s 
trees are all having fruit, and I have none 
at all!” 

Miss Arnold was quite unused to children. 
She did not laugh, she saw the trouble was 
a real one. 


A CUMBERER 


93 

‘‘But why should you be a cumberer, as 
you call it? You are not a tree.” 

“The clergyman said I was — a kind of one. 
I feel I am a cumberer, because I don’t do 
any good to anybody. I just am doing noth- 
ing, like my tree. And the worst of it is I 
don’t know what to do, and how to do it ! 
I’m sure God is waiting for me to grow fruit. 
He won’t keep me in His garden if I don’t. 
Just like you said just now! And oh, I 
don’t want to be a cumberer!” 

“I am sure you are not a cumberer, dear. 
You are a good, useful little girl. I won’t 
have tears in my fruit garden. Let us come 
back to Bonnie, and eat gooseberries, and I’ll 
tell you a story about your father when he 
was a little boy.” 

• Cherry’s tears were stopped for the time, 
and for the rest of the day she was a happy, 
light-hearted child. 

But when she and Bonnie were in bed that 
night. Miss Arnold sat in her big, lonely 
drawing-room, turning over the pages of a 
book with which she was not very familiar. 
She took a long time to find the passage 
about the cumberer, but she discovered it 
at last, and read it slowly and thoughtfully 
through. 

“How extraordinary children are,” she 
muttered to herself “How easily they under- 
stand and adapt allegories to themselves!” 


CHERRY 


94 

Then she sat with her elbows resting 
on the small table before her, and her chin 
in her hands. Her thoughts did not seem 
pleasant ones, for her brows were knitted 
and her eyes were sad. 

She rose at last with a heavy sigh, and 
went up to bed, sajdng over to herself: 

“Why cumbereth it the ground?’^ 


VII 


BONNIE’S STORY 

The next morning Miss Arnold took the 
little girls home in her carriage. She did not 
come into the house with them, but when 
she kissed Cherry in parting, she said: 

“You must come over and see me again, 
and be my little friend. I live all alone, and 
am very dull, for I have nothing to do.” 

And Cherry’s little heart responded gladly 
to this appeal. Shy as she was of most 
strangers, she did not fear Miss Arnold; she 
longed to talk to her and ask her some of 
the things that troubled her. She and Bon- 
nie went straight to their father, and gave a 
full account of themselves. 

“Everybody seems to know you, father,” 
said Cherry wonderingly. 

“Of course they do. A little too well for 
my taste. I am not going to have a pack of 
women about my place. Blanche Arnold 
was a regular young scapegrace when she 
was a child. I should have thought she 
would have married.” 

He did not scold them for their escapade 


CHERRY 


96 

on the Saturday, but when they reached the 
schoolroom they had much to hear from the 
boys. 

Phil was indignant with them. 

“You managed jolly well for yourselves,” 
he said, “in getting round a stranger, and 
inviting yourselves to her house to be out of 
the way of the row! And then you come 
home smiling as if nothing had happened! 
I shan’t take any trouble about you another 
time, but just look after myself!” 

“I don’t think you had half as bad a time 
as I had,” said Stacy. 

“How did you come home?” Cherry asked 
with interest. 

“Oh, I got home half an hour after Phil 
did. That pony is the stupidest animal I’ve 
ever come across. I rode on till I came to a 
village, and just as I was coming up the 
street, the pony stumbled and pitched me off 
and broke his knees. And I hit my head such 
a crack that I couldn’t speak or remember 
an3rthing. And when I did, I found a car- 
rier’s cart was just on its way to the village 
here, and as I could get no one to walk back 
with me to you I thought I’d better come on 
home, and send that carriage to fetch you 
back. I thought I was never going to get 
here. The old man driving, stopped at every 
house he came to, and handed out parcels, 
and talked till he was black in the face, and 


BONNIE^S STORY 


97 

had to have a drink before he could go on 
again.” 

‘‘And where’s the pony?” 

“Oh, he came with me. He was tied on 
behind. Hastings was awfully mad, he has 
hardly recovered yet.” 

“And what did father say?” 

“Oh, Stacy backed out of going in to him ! 
I took Miss Arnold’s note. And Goff was 
like a fury; but father just lounged back and 
smoked his pipe and looked at me.” 

“How did he look?” 

“He tried to make a fellow feel uncomfort- 
able, but I told him my story, and then 
Stacy was sent for, and father said very 
quietly, ‘Wlien you have a cart and horse of 
your own, you will be at liberty to use it. 
Until then you will please remember that 
taking other people’s things without asking 
their permission is one form of stealing, and 
that, as I have been taught, is not one of an 
English gentleman’s characteristics!’ ” 

Phil mimicked his father’s slow, languid 
tones to perfection. 

Stacy put in his word. 

“Of course, I wasn’t going to stand that. 
I said if the cart and horse belonged to him, 
I thought I might be allowed to use it ; and 
as for stealing, I wasn’t a beggar or a thief 
and ” 

“Yes,” said Pliil, “Stacy got as red as a 
7 


CHERRY 


98 

turkey cock, and stuttered and blew himself 
out, till he was ordered out of the room. 
And then Hastings came home and gave us 
an hour’s lecture. And by the way, who do 
you think gave us away and got here with 
the news that we were tearing over the 
country like a tinker’s crew?” 

^‘Who?” 

“That old lady cousin of ours who passed 
us in the road. She came on here, and went 
into father’s room and made him as angry 
as she could. I’ll be even with her one day !” 

Phil tried to look fierce as he spoke. 

“Yes,” said Stacy, “this seems a dreadful 
place for unknown relations to be spjying on 
you. Is this Miss Arnold another cousin, I’d 
like to know!” 

“Oh, no, she’s very nice,” said Cherry de- 
cidedly. “She’s going to ask us into her 
garden to eat strawberries one day.” 

“Well, after all,” said Phil, “it was a kind 
of adventure ; and though we shan’t be able 
to do it again, we may find something else 
to do quite as joUy.” 

“Yes,” said Cherry thoughtfully, “I liked 
the beginning of it, and I liked the end, but 
— but I didn’t like the middle!” 

Later that day, she and Bonnie were 
seated in “mother’s garden,” pla3dng with 
their dolls. 

“I wish we had a fig tree here,” said Bon- 


BONNIE’S STORY 


99 

nie. She could not forget Cherry’s story. It 
had made a great impression on her. 

“My cherry tree is just like it,” said Cherry 
sorrowfully. “It won’t have any cherries on 
it.” 

Bonnie looked at it with great interest. 

“Do you think we ought to cut it down?” 
she asked. “I could get a knife, or the big 
chopper that A,B,C uses. It would be great 
fun. Cherry, do let us!” 

But Cherry shivered. She knelt down and 
put her arms round her tree as ifto protect it. 

“I wouldn’t hurt it for anything, Bonnie. 
How cruel of you ! My dear little tree 1 It 
belongs to me, and I love it.” 

“But it ought to get some cherries on it,” 
said Bonnie, looking at it disapprovingly. 
“Do you think it cries about it, and is sorry, 
like the tree in your story did?” 

“Of course it is sorry,” said Cherry quickly. 
“Of course it would hke to be covered all 
over with nice red cherries ; but it can’t make 
them come.” 

“Shall we ask dear God to send an angel 
down in the night with a basket? And then 
to-morrow p’raps we shall come and see 
them growing?” 

Anything seemed probable to Bonnie, but 
Cherry hesitated. 

“That was only a story,” she said slowly. 
“It was a make-up, Bonnie.” 


LofC. 


lOO 


CHERRY 


“Yes, but angels isn’t make-up. They 
really does come down from the sky every 
night. They come to take care of me. I’m 
sure dear God would do it, Cherry.” 

“They don’t have baskets of cherries in 
heaven,” said Cherry. 

“What a pity! Don’t they? Can’t dear 
God get them from anywhere?” 

“We might ask God to grow cherries on my 
tree,” said Cherry slowly. “Because He 
makes the tree grow.” 

“So we will. Shall we ask dear God now?” 

Hand in hand the little girls knelt down 
by the side of the cherry tree and Cherry 
prayed aloud: 

“Please, God, will you make cherries grow 
on my tree? It doesn’t want to be a cum- 
berer. Please make them come; and please 
don’t let me be a cumberer, but make me 
have fruit for you to pick. For Jesus 
Christ’s sake. Amen.” 

She wondered why she had never prayed 
before, and she rose from her knees com- 
forted. 

“If cherries could be grown, why should 
not God grow them?” she thought. “He 
made the flowers and the cherries, and surely 
He might make her, too, a fruitful tree in His 
garden!” 

“I’ll come here and pray every day, Bonnie, 
until the cherries come.” 


BONNIE’S STORY 


lOI 


^‘What did you call your tree, Cherry— 
a cumber?” asked Bonnie a few minutes 
after. 

‘^A cumberer.” 

“Why do you say that?” 

“Because that’s the meaning of a cumberer. 
A tree that does nothing, and is no good to 
anybody.” 

Bonnie repeated this over to herself several 
times. She asked no more questions, but 
that afternoon she was sitting in the veran- 
da with her father. 

Cherry was pla3dng cricket with the boys. 
Bonnie was not required ; she was apt to get 
too excited, and if asked to field, would 
throw the ball in any direction. She could 
not bowl, and the bat was too heavy for her 
little hands. She was quite content to chat- 
ter away to her father, while he read his 
paper and smoked. 

She was perched on his knees, and her little 
face was full of eager importance. 

“I’ve heard a lovely story, father. Cherry 
tolded it to me out of a tree. It was be- 
cause we didn’t go to church. Wouldn’t you 
like to hear it?” 

“Very much.” 

Bonnie wriggled herself a little closer to 
her father, then sticking one chubby finger 
through a buttonhole of his coat, she began 
her tale. 


102 


CHERRY 


^ ‘There was once a dear little tree in a 
garden and a man. Two mens there was, 
and one man said, ‘Cut it down d’rectlj!^ 
And the other said, ‘Not just yet please.^ 
It was a cumberer tree you know, and it 
ought to have grown a lot of figs, and there 
wasn’t one, no, not one on it at all!” 

Bonnie paused, and looked up into her 
father’s face. When she told a story, she 
expected applause the whole way through. 

“That was very sad,” he remarked 
gravely. 

“Very sad indeed!” echoed Bonnie, shaking 
her head violently from side to side; “and 
every day it did just the same; it never 
growed any figs. So one day the mens came 
again. ‘Cut it down d’rectly,’ the gentleman 
said, and the poor little tree shook itself, and 
cried and cried, and it was frightened, and 
it tried as hard as ever it could to grow figs, 
and it couldn’t. Aren’t you sorry for the 
poor little tree?” 

“Shall I cry?” asked her father. 

“Yes, Cherry nearly does. Now listen. 
One day a angel came by and asked the mat- 
ter, and she said she would tell dear God 
all about it. So she flew as fast as she 
could up to heaven, and she came down 
again in the middle of the night, and so she 
tied some figs on to the tree out of her bas- 
ket, and so when the little cumber tree woke 


BONNIE’S STORY 


103 

up tlie next morning he found he was full — 
quite crowded — full of figs!” 

‘‘What a lucky little tree!” 

“Yes, and he wasn’t a cumber tree any 
more.” 

“Is that all?” 

“Yes, isn’t it lovely?” 

“Did Cherry make that up?” 

“It’s in the Bible, she says. Will you read 
it to me, father?” 

“Not to-day.” 

“Will you read it to me to-morrow?” 

“I think the Bible is best kept for Sun- 
days.” 

“Nex’ Sunday will you read it to me?” 

“We will see.” 

“And do you know,” Bonnie continued 
confidentially, “Cherry has got a cumber 
tree all of her own. Isn’t that wunnerful?” 

“What do you call a cumber tree?” 

“Cherry explained it to me. She said it’s 
a tree that does nothing and is no good to 
nobody, and that’s what her tree does ; and 
cumber trees are always cut right off out of 
the ground, but Cherry won’t cut hers down ; 
and we telled dear God we wanted Him to 
grow cherries on it, and not let it be a 
cumber tree any more. Do you think dear 
God will fill it full of cherries?” 

The Colonel shook his head. 

“I don’t know about such things,” he said. 


CHERRY 


104 

and then he put her off his knees with an 
amused smile, and Bonnie sat down by the 
side of her Dinah” and began chattering 
to her. 

Presently Cherry came running across the 
lawn. Cricket was over ; the boys were go- 
ing indoors to prepare some lessons for the 
next day, but they had sent her on a mes- 
sage to her father, and she was coming to 
deliver it. She slackened her steps as she 
came near the veranda. She did not yet 
feel perfectly at ease in her father’s pres- 
ence. 

Her father smiled at her as she came up. 
His smiles and the kind look in his eyes were 
what attracted Cherry so. But he kept his 
smiles for his little daughters only, the boys 
never saw them. 

“I’ve come to ask you something, father.” 

“What is it?” 

Cherry hesitated. 

“We are not quite sure how rich you are, 
but Stacy says he is sure you are richer than 
Dr. Burton. And he and Phil used to get 
fourpence a week pocket money, and Bonnie 
and I had a penny.” 

There was a pause. 

“And what do you get now?” 

“We haven’t had nothing,” said Cherry, 
forgetting her grammar in her confusion. 
“Stacy had four shillings from his last birth- 


BONNIE’S STORY 


105 

day, but that’s all gone now, and Phil had 
half a crown and that’s gone.” 

“I don’t know what you children want 
money for,” said the Colonel, with a little 
frown, “but Mr. Hastings will see to it. Ask 
him to give you what you are accustomed 
to have. I cannot be troubled with that 
kind of things.” 

“Thank you, father.” 

Cherry was beginning to know that phrase 
well — “I cannot be troubled with that kind 
of things.” The Colonel took life easily. 
And Mr. Hastings found he had his hands 
full. 

Cherry looked at her father a little wist- 
fully. “If you don’t like us to have money, 
Bonnie and me won’t, father.” 

“But I Hkes pennies,” put in Bonnie quick- 
ly; “I wants to get Dinah some shoes, and 
I gived Phil two half-pennies to buy some 
string, and I haven’t any at all. I wish I 
was growed up.” 

“What would you do then?” asked the 
Colonel, smiling. 

“Just the same as you does,” was the 
quick reply; and sarcasm was unknown to 
Bonnie. “I would lie on a sofa and do 
nothing. And I would fill my pipe with 
sugar candy, and I would have birds in 
cages to sing, and pretty flowers all round 
me.” 


io6 CHERRY 

*‘Is that your idea of life, Cherry?” asked 
the Colonel. 

Cherry was silent; then she said, ‘‘I don’t 
want to grow up, I shall have to do such 
difficult things.” 

“What kind of things?” 

“Going in trains alone and buying in 
shops, and— and teaching people to be 
good.” 

“Well,” said the Colonel slowly, “I think 
that last detail might be difficult, but I 
haven’t met many who think it their duty 
to do it.” 

He nearly added, “I am thankful to say,” 
but stopped himself in time. Cherry’s grave 
sweet eyes were looking earnestly at him. 

“Auntie always did,” she said. “I thought 
everybody had to.” 

“Do I teach you and Bonnie to be good?” 
asked the Colonel. 

Cherry looked a little puzzled. 

“You know about it,” she said at length. 
“Grown-up people never do anything wrong. 
It’s only children. You would tell us if we 
did wicked things. And you know things.” 

“What kind of things?” 

“About God, and heaven, and the Bible,” 
said Cherry confidently. “Perhaps,” she said, 
growing bolder, “you could tell me how to 
grow fruit.” 

“I think Abercrombie knows more of gar- 


BONNIE’S STORY 


107 

dening than I do,” said Colonel St. Leger, 
looking at Cherry curiously. 

“I didn’t mean the garden fruit,” said 
Cherry, feeling her shyness come back. “I 
want to have fruit myself.” 

She would say no more, and a minute 
after a summons came for them to go to 
bed. 

“Children are very queer and incompre- 
hensible,” said the Colonel to himself, as he 
puffed away at his pipe. “It is best not to 
try to understand them.” 


YIII 


MISS ARNOLD’S PLAN 

“Still gazing at that little girl?’^ 

“Oh, I like looking at her! I wish I had 
been a little girl when you were, Miss Ar- 
nold.” 

Cherry was spending a day with her new 
friend, and she was taking off her hat in the 
bedroom, when Miss Arnold came in and 
found her standing opposite the picture. 

Miss Arnold sat down and looked at the 
picture herself. 

“She was a very happy little girl. Cherry, 
then. Sometimes when I think of her, I feel 
rather sorry for her when she grew up, for 
everything was so different to what she 
thought it would be.” 

“Do tell me about her,” said Cherry. 

“She had a loving mother when that pic- 
ture was taken, and a father who gave her 
everything she wanted. She went to school 
when she was bigger, and then one sad day 
she was sent for to see her mother die. She 
came home and lived with her father, but 
he was too sad now to cheer her or comfort 
her, and he died two years after, a broken- 


MISS ARNOLD’S PLAN 109 

hearted man. Then an aunt and a cousin 
came to live with her, and she tried to be 
happy. She was at last, when some one 
came along that she was very fond of. This 
friend and she were going to live together, 
and they planned and thought of so many 
nice things. The girl was full of good in- 
tentions — she would be a model wife — and 
everything would be beautiful. But a dark 
cloud came along and spoilt it all. The 
girl’s cousin and friend came to know each 
other, and they thought they would suit 
each other best, so it altered everything. 
They were married, and the girl lived on 
alone with her aunt. Then her aunt be- 
came ill and suffered a good deal, and at 
last she died. So the girl was left quite 
alone then, and she wouldn’t have any one 
else to live with her. She began to think 
that life was very unhappy — not at all what 
she had thought it when her picture was 
taken.” 

“And that girl is you? It’s all about 
you!” said Cherry wonderingly. 

“Yes, all about me, and I am just living 
on here doing no good to anybody. In fact, 
Cherry, I am what you call a ‘cumberer.’ 
There, now, aren’t you sorry for me?” 

“But grown-up people can’t be cumberers,” 
argued Cherry, “they’re always so busy, and 
do such a lot of useful things.” 


I lO 


CHERRY 


Miss Arnold laughed. 

“Oh, you children, so ignorant and trust- 
ful! How I wish I was a child again!” 

She took Cherry down -stairs into her 
beautiful drawing-room, where she showed 
her all kinds of wonderful curiosities and 
quaint old picture-books; and then she sat 
down to her piano and played to her, and 
made her join in some old English songs. 
Cherry was enjoying herself immensely when 
the door was opened, and Mrs. Crawford 
was announced. 

“My dear Blanche, whom have you here? 
One of Eustace’s children? Now how, may 
I ask, did you get hold of her? You have 
never bearded the lion’s den?” 

Miss Arnold shook her head and laughed. 

“I should not attempt such an audacity. 
I befriended this small damsel and her sister 
a week ago, and this visit is the result of 
a diplomatic note.” 

“Ah! you always were clever with your 
pen. I really am at my wits’ end to know 
how to get him out of his shell. It is so 
ridiculous; it is not as if his wife had died 
yesterday. I begin to think a sunstroke he 
had in India has affected his head. I have 
begged him to dine with us; I have told 
him his old friends are dying to meet him. 
I have written him note after note, saying 
that a little cheerful society will do him 


MISS ARNOLD’S PLAN iii 

more good than any amount of medicines. 
But he ignores every overture. I am long- 
ing, simply longing to arrange his house- 
hold more comfortably. He wants at least 
three extra servants, two maids and a man ; 
and these little girls ought to have a govern- 
ess who would act as lady housekeeper. I 
have told him all this, and expressed my 
willingness to undertake everything for him ; 
but he persistently refuses to allow me a 
voice in the matter.” 

should let him have a rest for a short 
time,” said Miss Arnold, with a twinkle in 
her eye. “Give somebody else the benefit of 
your energy and good will.” 

“Oh, my dear, I have my hands full as it 
is. I have just come to ask if you can help 
me. Such a sad case in our village! Our 
carpenter has suddenly died and left a wife 
and five children absolutely unprovided for. 
They have not a penny, and there seems to 
be no relations. The wife is such a superior 
person; was lady’s maid to my dear friend 
Lady Matilda Otterham. There is nothing 
but the workhouse for them unless I take 
them in hand, and of course I am going to 
do what I can. The eldest boy I am going 
to take in to the stable at once ; I am fitting 
out the eldest girl in clothes for service. She 
is fourteen, so it is time she was doing some- 
thing. The mother must take in dressmak- 


II2 


CHERRY 


ing. I have told her to begin at once, and 
I have told my maids to employ her in the 
future. I am making a collection just to 
insure her having a small pittance a week 
to begin with. And I wonder if you have 
any black clothes you do not want! The 
funeral is to be in two days’ time.” 

‘T’m afraid I have nothing for you in the 
shape of clothes,” said Miss Arnold, stifling 
a yawn. “I never wear black. I hate it. 
I’ll give you a sovereign, if you like, toward 
your collection.” 

“Oh, thank you! Delightful! And while 

I think of it, have you a vote for the B 

orphan asylum? I have a child I want to 
get in there — a most deserving case. I must 
tell you about her.” 

“There is no need. I have no vote. I gave 
up subscribing toward it. It was too much 
bother answering appeals from all sorts and 
kinds of people.” 

“I wish I had your leisure!” 

“Now, Mrs. Crawford, you know you 
don’t. You live your life, so let me live 
mine.” 

“But, my dear, you could do so much 
with your influence, your wealth.” 

“And my laziness! Don’t preach to me, 
please. I am very busy to-day entertaining 
this small guest. What? Must you be go- 
ing? I won’t take a leaf out of your book 


MISS ARNOLD’S PLAN 113 

and wish I were such a busy person as you 
are, but I do admire you immensely!” 

^‘Thank you! Good-by, Christobel. You 
are the image of your mother. If you were 
a Httle older, your father might be reached 
through you; as it is, I feel he is hopeless!” 

Cherry looked after Mrs. Crawford disap- 
provingly. 

“She always makes out father does wrong 
things,” she said. “What does he do that 
he oughtn’t to?” 

“Oh, very few of us can please Mrs. Craw- 
ford. I can’t; so your father and I are in 
the same boat. Have you ever heard a lot 
of clocks ticking away together, Cherry? 
Come into the hall with me. There, now, 
listen to that old clock on the stairs! Do 
you think he is a lazy old slowcoach? This 
Httle French clock on the mantelpiece does. 
Listen to his fussy, ratthng tick. Do you 
think he does more than the old clock?” 

“He goes much quicker,” said Cherry, lis- 
tening as she was told ; and looking up won- 
deringly into Miss Arnold’s face. 

“Not a bit of it! He takes just as long to 
get round the hour as the old clock does, 
and he will wear himself out in half the 
time. It is best to take life slowly and 
easily, don’t you think so?” 

Cherry looked very puzzled. Then Miss 
Arnold laughed. 

8 


CHERRY 


114 

“I am talking nonsense, child. I am trying 
to persuade myself that I am doing as much 
work in the day as Mr^. Crawford is, where- 
as the truth is, that I am a lazy, idle drone, 
and I think your small finger has been the 
first one to point it out to me.” 

“But I’ve never pointed my finger at you. 
I really haven’t,” said Cherry gravely. 

Miss Arnold laughed again. 

“I tell you what we will do. Cherry. You 
and I will set to work together, and do a 
few good works on the quiet, shall we? 
Just to satisfy our own consciences that we 
are not cumberers of the ground. Is it a 
bargain? Now, where shall we begin? What 
shall we do first?” 

“But,” said Cherry breathlessly, “you gave 
cousin — cousin Anna some money. If I had 
money, I would be quite happy, because I 
couldn’t be a cumberer then.” 

“But it is money that makes people cum- 
berers, you little innocent ! If I had been a 
poor woman, I should not have so many 
idle years to account for ! Now, think hard. 
What can we do?” 

Cherry’s eyes grew bright and eager. 

“I should like to do something good, 
really good,” she said. “What kind of things 
did the people in the Bible do?” 

“Bless the child! I can’t be always hunt- 
ing up my Bible to see. I do remember one 


MISS ARNOLD’S PLAN 115 

woman in it who made coats and little gar- 
ments ; for an old nurse of mine was called 
after her, and her name was Dorcas. Well, 
let us start with her, and follow her ex- 
ample. We will make some clothes for the 
poor. For these small children who have 
lost their father. Can you work at all. 
Cherry?” 

“Yes, but I don’t do it very well.” 

“Don’t look so sober. I am not very clever 
at my needle, but we will try. And there is 
nothing like striking when the iron is hot. I 
will order the carriage round, and we will 
drive into Norton Wold, and buy some mate- 
rial at once. You shall help me to choose.” 

Cherry clapped her hands. 

“That will be lovely,” she said. 

So in a very short time Miss Arnold and 
her little friend were driving along the coun- 
try road in her carriage and pair. 

“And we won’t tell any one about it,” said 
Cherry. “It is to be quite a secret.” 

“Yes, quite a secret. We must not let Mrs. 
Crawford hear a word of it ; and then one 
day when we have two big parcels of frocks 
and petticoats, we will drive to the cottage ; 
and you shall lay them on the door-step, 
and come away like some unseen fairy.” 

“But if they do see me?” 

“You mustn’t let them. We will go when 
it is nearly dark.” 


CHERRY 


1 16 

It all seemed most entrancing to Cherry. 
And when she stood by Miss Arnold’s side in 
the big linen-draper’s, and saw lengths of 
bright scarlet and blue merino being meas- 
ured off for frocks; and helped to choose 
pretty pink and white cotton for pinafores, 
soft flannel for petticoats, and some dark 
crimson serge for warm cloaks, she thought 
this was one of the happiest days of her life. 

“I will get my maid to cut the frocks out, 
and we will set to work at once. When can 
you come over to me again?” Miss Arnold 
asked as she drove Cherry home. 

“Will you ask Mr. Hastings, please.” 

“I hope he is not a stern master, is he? 
Why, Cherry, how stupid of us, we have been 
getting red and blue frocks instead of black 
for little girls who have lost their father ! It 
is clear I am not cut out for a ‘Dorcas.’ 
What shall we do? They are so pretty too ! 
I don’t think I could work at a black frock, 
could you? Well, we will make them up, and 
fill! some one else to give them to.” 

When they reached Instanton, Miss Arnold 
sat in her carriage, whilst Cherry ran indoors 
to find Mr. Hastings. 

Colonel St. Leger, sauntering into the ve- 
randa, met her face to face. He came up to 
the carriage and held out his hand. 

“Very good of you to trouble yourself with 
children,” he said. 


MISS ARNOLD’S PLAN 


117 

Miss Arnold looked at him with eyes full 
of laughter. 

“I have been left too much to myself,” she 
said. “Cherry is beginning my training. It 
is late in the day, but it is never too late to 
mend, is it?” 

“Are you living all alone?” 

“Yes, in lonely wealth and state.” 

He smiled. 

“You have not changed much,” he said 
briefly. 

“Thank you. And yet in some ways I 
wish I had. What is life to you at present. 
Colonel?” 

He shrugged his shoulders. 

“A midday siesta,” he replied. “The 
morning of my life has gone, and I will not 
allow that the evening has come.” 

“It has been twilight to me for many 
years.” 

There was a pause, which Cherry inter- 
rupted. 

“Mr. Hastings says I may come to you 
next Saturday afternoon, if you will have me.” 

“I will send the carriage for you then.” 

“Those are good horses of yours,” said 
Colonel St. Leger, looking at the chestnuts 
with a critical eye. 

“Yes? I am glad you approve of them. 
You used to be very keen in the hunting 
field. Is all that over?” 


ii8 


CHERRY 


“Yes. India takes it out of a man as 
nothing else does. I mean to get a horse 
and carriage shortly. Riding is forbidden.” 

They exchanged a few more words, then 
Miss Arnold drove away. 

“Oh, father,” said Cherry, dancing up and 
down in her excitement, “Miss Arnold is the 
very nicest person in the world, isn’t she?” 

But Colonel St. Leger did not express an 
opinion. He went back to his newspaper 
and pipe. 

The days seemed to crawl to Cherry now. 
Would Saturday never come? 

“Why doesn’t she ask us?” said Phil, a 
little discontentedly when Saturday arrived. 
“It’s awfully slow in the country here. I 
wish I was back at Dr. Burton’s again.” 

“It’s because we have a secret that I am 
going to her,” said Cherry importantly. 
“And it’s a secret that would be no good to 
boys, for they couldn’t do it.” 

“But I could,” cried Bonnie; “and I wants 
to come. Cherry.” 

“Well, I’ve got some news,” said Stacy 
consolingly. “I’ve just heard a new parson 
is coming to the Vicarage and I believe 
there’s a family. Hastings told me just now, 
for he walked up with the parson himself to 
the Vicarage gate.” 

“But we’ve got a clergyman,” said Cherry. 

“He’s ill. Look how he croaks in church! 


MISS ARNOLD^S PLAN 119 

He is ordered abroad by the doctors, and 
this one is coming in his stead. Phil and I 
mean to go and see the furniture arrive this 
afternoon; and Bonnie, you can come with 
us, if you’re very good. Cherry will just 
miss it.” 

There was a little satisfaction in his tone. 
The boys could not forgive Cherry for “tak- 
ing up with a stranger,” as they expressed it, 
and forsaking them. But Cherry did not heed 
their words. She departed in a great state 
of excitement. 

Miss Arnold received her with much pleas- 
ure, and led her into her pretty morning- 
room, where a round table was drawn up 
to the window upon which were laid piles of 
cotton and merino. 

“I’ve brought my thimble,” said Cherry, 
diving into her pocket and producing it as 
she spoke. 

“That is right! Now we have to work 
hard. Jane has cut out everything, and 
tacked most of it together, for I am as igno- 
rant as you are. Don’t you think we might 
begin one of the little frocks?” 

Cherry was only too pleased; she settled 
herself down in a low chair by the open 
French window, and threaded her needle 
with much importance. Miss Arnold handed 
her a little blue skirt to seam, and took a 
red one herself. She began telling Cherry 


120 


CHERRY 


some funny reminiscences of her own child- 
hood, and half an hour passed very pleas- 
antly. Then Cherry’s fingers grew hot and 
sticky ; her thread began to knot ; she pricked 
herself; flies would tickle the back of her 
neck; she got fidgety and restless, and at 
last long sighs escaped her. 

Miss Arnold looked up. 

“You are looking quite warm, dear, and I 
am longing to be out in the air. Let us 
bring our work out into the garden and find 
a shady corner on the lawn.” 

This was a delightful change, but there 
were many interruptions. Oscar came up 
and wanted a game of play. Miss Arnold 
chased him across the lawn and tied him up ; 
then in a few minutes she declared that they 
must have some fruit to eat, and she took 
Cherry off to pick some red currants. Their 
hands required washing after that, and they 
seemed to get very little work done before 
afternoon tea arrived. 

“I don’t think I like work much, do you. 
Cherry?” said Miss Arnold with her merry 
twinkle in her eye. 

“Oh, no,” sighed Cherry; “do you think 
mine is very bad?” 

The little blue skirt seemed to be losing its 
freshness as she held it up anxiously for in- 
spection. 

“I don’t think either of us would take a 


MISS ARNOLD’S PLAN 


I2I 


prize for fine needlework,” said Miss Arnold, 
looking at it comically. “I think you take 
too many stitches. Cherry, and I take too 
few ! Still I think we must persevere a little 
longer. It is real hard work to us, isn’t 
it?” 

“Yes,” assented Cherry heartily, “but it’s 
Bible work, isn’t it?” 

“I suppose it is. Does that comfort you? 
There now, I have hemmed this inside out! 
What a dunce I am, to be sure! Oh, why 
wasn’t I taught how to work properly!” 

“Weren’t you?” asked Cherry with interest. 

“No. Well — in a kind of way I was. But 
I never would work. I always hated it. 
And from the time I left school I never 
touched it. I am afraid we shall not get 
through our pile very fast, little woman! 
Do you think you could take some home 
with you? If we could both do a little every 
day, and have a regular afternoon for it 
every Saturday, we should accomplish a 
good deal.” 

“Yes, I could do it at home,” said Cherry 
slowly. “But it wouldn’t be a secret if the 
boys knew.” 

“Oh, yes it would, if you didn’t tell them 
what it was you were making, and who it 
was for. There! Now let us stop. We are 
both tired out. Would you like to take some 
home?” 


122 


CHERRY 


“Yes, please.” 

Visions of the boys and Bonnie racing 
through the green meadows when lessons 
were over, and of herself sewing away in the 
hot, close schoolroom, flitted before Cherry’s 
eyes. She bravely stifled all regret in her 
tone, but Miss Arnold suddenly seized hold of 
her and kissed her. 

“You are a little trump. Cherry! We both 
hate it, don’t we? But we’re going to do it, 
and carry it through, and clothe a whole 
family before we finish! And we can truly 
say that we have not been ‘cumbering’ this 
afternoon!” 

Cherry’s eyes shone. She was tired, very 
tired, but what did that matter? She won- 
dered vaguely how much work would be 
equivalent to the first appearance of fruit on 
a tree. 

“It will be like one small cherry, perhaps, 
if I work hard and never grumble for two 
Saturdays more,” she said to herself, and 
she went home in the best of spirits. 


IX 


NEW PLAYFELLOWS 

‘‘There’s a baby, and three small girls, and 
a big girl, and a boy about my size,” said 
Stacy that evening at tea. “Phil and I saw 
them arrive, and they’re sure to be in church 
to-morrow.” 

“And I spoke to the boy,” said Phil. “His 
name is Angus, and his father teaches him 
lessons. He must be rather a muff.” 

“Where did you see him?” asked Cherry. 

“I was buying some string at the post- 
office, and he came to post a letter. He’s 
rather a seedy-looking chap; at least his 
clothes are, but he knows how to carpenter 
a bit!” 

This was a great recommendation in Phil’s 
eyes. 

“I’m glad there are some little girls,” said 
Cherry. 

“Yes,” said Bonnie eagerly. “May I nod 
to them in church. Cherry? I think dear 
God would let me just this once!” 

Bonnie had scandalized her more sedate 
sister by her system of nodding to every one 
in church with whom she had the slightest 


CHERRY 


124 

acquaintance. When taken to task about it, 
she said pitifully: 

“But how will they know that I knows 
them?” 

“You oughtn’t to know anybody but God 
in church,” was the crushing reply. And 
now Cherry hastened to say, “You haven’t 
got to nod to them anywhere, Bonnie, for 
you don’t know them at all.” 

“But I shall know them to-morrow,” Bon- 
nie returned. “I’ve seen them all, and, of 
course, I shall know them again; and two 
little girls were just the same as the other, 
and they had curls like me.” 

It was not surprising after this conversa- 
tion that the little St. Legers’ eyes were 
fixed upon the minister’s pew throughout 
the service on the following day. 

Mr. Allan, the new clergyman, was a tall, 
thin, weary-looking man, with a sweet smile 
and a soft, pleasant voice. His sermon was 
so simple that even Cherry listened and 
understood; but her attention was rather 
distracted by all the young faces opposite. 
Colonel St. Leger had sittings in the chancel, 
facing the vicar’s family, so there was every 
opportunity for mutual inspection. 

A sweet-faced girl of sixteen or seventeen 
came first; next to her sat a little girl of 
four, in white frock and sunbonnet; then 
two girls about Bonnie’s size who were evi- 


NEW PLAYFELLOWS 125 

dently twins, and then the boy already men- 
tioned by Phil. Mrs. Allan was not there. 
As they left the church, the little St. Legers 
passed them. Bonnie could not resist turn- 
ing round and smiling seraphically into their 
faces ; and her smiles were promptly re- 
turned. 

She was very busy telling her father all 
about them that afternoon in the garden. 
He was in the veranda as usual, but he did 
not seem best pleased at her recital. 

“I cannot have anymore children running 
about,” he said a little testily. “There is 
no occasion for you to make friends with 
them at all.” 

“But, father, they is really very nice. I 
do wish you had sat with me in church and 
looked at them. The two little girls I like 
were dressed in blue cotton frocks, and their 
hair was rough and tangly like mine. When 
are you coming to church, father? How 
soon will you be well enough?” 

“Not just yet.” 

“Cherry says it is wicked to laugh in 
church. She says I oughtn’t to smile. 
Doesn’t God like to see peoples smile? Do 
you think He tells the angels not to do 
it?” 

Bonnie seldom waited for answers to her 
questions. She continued: 

“Father, dear, will you read me about 


126 


CHERRY 


that poor little tree to-daj? You said you 
would on Sunday.” 

“But you made me read it to you last 
Sunday,” objected the Colonel. 

“Yes, but I wants to hear it again. I 
loves it. I will go and fetch you the Bible.” 

She knew where her father kept her moth- 
er’s Bible; and she laid it on his knee rev- 
erently. 

The Colonel turned over the leaves. 

“I didn’t bargain for this every Sunday,” 
he muttered to himself. He found the pass- 
age and read it slowly through. Bonnie’s 
head was in constant motion during the 
reading, sometimes shaking it pitifully, some- 
times nodding approvingly. 

“‘This year also,’” she repeated, “‘and if 
it bear fruit well : and if not then after that, 
thou shalt cut it down.’ Cherry’s little tree 
is being left, isn’t it, father? Will you go 
and tell A,B,C to cut it down, if it doesn’t 
have any fruit next year?” 

Then after a pause she said: 

“Did you know you was a tree, father? 
And Cherry and me and everybody? Cherry 
says we are; and she says Miss Arnold is a 
tree too. What kind of tree do you like to 
be, father? Will you purtend to be a cum- 
ber tree, and I’ll come and talk about cut- 
ting you down?” 

She danced away to the end of the veran- 


NEW PLAYFELLOWS 127 

da, then came back stamping down her little 
feet heavily on the pavement. 

“I’ve come to look for fruit on this tree 
of mine ” she commenced in a very gruff 
tone; “it has been growing and growing, 
and it’s quite a big old tree, and it hasn’t, 
had one fruit on it ever since I put it here, 
and I’m very much afraid it’s a — a cumber 
tree.” 

She paused and regarded her father with 
comical gravity, then shook her head at him 
very deliberately. 

“I shall have to cut you down if I don’t 
find any fruit on you,” she said. “It’s no 
use for you to cry and say you’re sorry! 
I’m just going to have a very long look for 
fruit ; and then I must cut you down, because 
I’m afraid you’re a cumber tree!” 

Bonnie was thoroughly enjoying her game 
now. She began a minute inspection of her 
father’s person, and the Colonel lounged 
back in his chair lazily, amused with it. 
She moved his head from side to side, she 
lifted up his arms, she opened his hands, 
she peeped into his pockets, she even tried 
to take off his boots. 

And at last she stood up. 

“Now what have you got to say for your- 
self, cumber tree? You haven’t got a tiny 
wee little bit of fruit about you!” 

“I think,” said the Colonel gravely, “you 


128 CHERRY 

had better give me till next year. I’ll try 
to do better.” 

“WiU you really—on your word and honor? 
Then I’ll come back next Sunday and see 
what you look like.” 

The little game was over; but the baby 
lips had uttered words that were probing 
deeply. Her father sent her away with a 
smile; but when he was alone he took up 
his wife’s well-read Bible and began perus- 
ing its pages. Goff found him strangely dif- 
ficult to please for the rest of the day. 

As for Bonnie, she danced off to her moth- 
er’s garden and surprised Cherry, who was 
kneeling by her tree with her arms round 
it. 

*‘What are you doing. Cherry?” 

Cherry looked a little flustered, but she 
seldom withheld her confidences from her 
younger sister. 

‘T’m just pra3ring to God for my tree,” 
she said, “and I’m telhng it that I’m try- 
ing to grow fruit.” 

“Dear God is rather busy on Sundays,” 
said Bonnie, looking up at the sky thought- 
fully. “He has so many churches to go to. 
Do you think He is ready to hsten to you. 
Cherry?” 

“God is always ready,” said Cherry, look- 
ing quite shocked at Bonnie’s words. 

“And when do you think He’ll send an 


NEW PLAYFELLOWS 129 

angel down with cherries?” Bonnie asked, 
going np to her tree and fingering with pride 
some little hard green plums. 

“Perhaps not till next year,” said Cherry 
sorrowfully. “A,B,C says my tree couldn’t 
possibly have any cherries this year ; it’s too 
late.” 

“My tree is very good,” said Bonnie, “and 
so is Stacy’s and Phil’s.” 

There was much pride in her tone, and 
Cherry walked away, feeling once more that 
she and her tree were both failures together. 

Before many days passed the Yicar’s chil- 
dren and the little St. Legers became ac- 
quainted with each other. The twins were 
a great puzzle to Bonnie. 

“I didn’t never know there were twos of 
people in the world,” she said to them. “If 
you’re just as old and have got the same 
birthday, why don’t you have the same 
name? I wish dear God had made two Bon- 
nies, then I could always have some one to 
play with when Cherry is out.” 

She and Cherry went over one afternoon to 
the vicarage and spent a very enjoyable time. 
Grace, the eldest girl, seemed always busy. 
Mrs. Allan was an invalid; there was quite 
a small baby, and they only kept one servant. 
Grace mothered her little sisters and kept 
things going ; but they were miserably poor, 
and it was hard work making both ends 
9 


CHERRY 


130 

meet. Cherry and Bonnie were not very ob- 
servant. Ruth, Faith, and little Bessie were 
bright, lively children, and knew how to 
play games. That was enough for them; 
their patched shoes and darned stockings, 
their faded cotton frocks and shabby hats, 
were not of any moment to them. They 
had not yet arrived at the critical stage of 
youth; a torn frock was just as good 
as a new one to them if it was comfortable, 
and they were delighted with their little 
friends. 

It made it doubly difficult to Cherry to 
sit at home working when the others were 
out at play. But she had brought home 
several tacked seams to hem, and every day 
after her afternoon lessons were over she 
determinedly sat herself down to her task. 
She sighed a good deal over it, and won- 
dered if it was really doing good, for she 
made but slow progress. The only thought 
that comforted her was that of presenting 
herself before Miss Arnold the following Sat- 
urday with her work accomplished. 

One afternoon she took it out to a gar- 
den seat at one end of the lawn. Abercrom- 
bie came up to her as he was mowing and 
gave her a smile of approval. 

“’Tis a useful leetle lassie,” he said. “Ye’ll 
tak’ after yer bonnie mither, wha neever lived 
fur hersel’ at all.” 


NEW PLAYFELLOWS 13 1 

^‘Didn’t she?” asked Cherry with interest. 
^‘Who did she live for?” 

“Fur her Creator’s glory,” the old man 
replied as he moved off, and Cherry pon- 
dered over the words. 

“They’re too grand for me,” she said, with 
a little sigh; “and too grown up. But I 
like to be called useful.” 

She did not get much praise for her needle- 
work from any one else. The boys were 
angry with her because she gave up fielding 
for them at cricket. Bonnie was almost 
tearful because she would no longer make 
clothes for Dinah. Nettie grumbled, saying 
she “wished, if she had a mind to work, 
she would mend her own stockings and put 
the buttons on her petticoats, for she could 
not get through the work. The young gen- 
tlemen wanted a woman to look after them 
entirely, they were so destructive.” 

And Cherry began to feel that perhaps, 
after all, making clothes for the poor was 
not such a virtue as she had imagined. 

One Monday she sat in the schoolroom 
with her work, but the tears were very 
near the surface. Everything had gone 
wrong, and Bonnie, as well as the boys, 
had quarrelled with her. Lessons were not 
a success that morning. Cherry was spok- 
en to very sharply by her tutor. 

“You did not prepare properly on Satur- 


CHERRY 


132 

day. I shall have to forbid your going out 
for the afternoon if it makes you so careless.’^ 

So after early dinner she was given an ex- 
tra task to do, and she fretted over the time 
that might have been given to her work. 

She was liberated at last, and the boys 
with her. Phil turned to her at once: 

“Cherry, you’re always sewing now; I 
want you to make me a bag. I’ve got the 
stuff, but it’s an invention I’m making. I 
want to put some gunpowder in it; so it 
must be very strong. I’ve got everything 
ready but the bag. It’s a kind of cannon or 
machine for firing off thousands of arrows. 
Of course mine is a small one; it sends off 
six at a time, and they’ll go an awful dis- 
tance. I’m going to the top of the church 
tower with Angus this afternoon, and we’re 
going to try it. Hurry up, do, for I want 
to be off.” 

“I can’t do it,” said Cherry crossly. “Mr. 
Hastings has kept me at my lessons so long 
that I’ve hardly any time before tea — and 
I’ve a lot of work I want to do. Ask some 
one else.” 

“Oh, do, there’s a brick! It won’t take 
you long.” 

“I can’t, I tell you. Go away!” 

“Then you’re a horrid, selfish, spiteful cat!” 

Phil flung himself away from her in a rage. 
Stacy, who had heard, came up softly behind 


NEW PLAYFELLOWS 133 

her, seized hold of the little print pinafore in 
her hand, and ran away with it with a de- 
lighted whoop and shout. 

Cherry pursued him with flaming cheeks 
and angry eyes. 

“Give it to me at once, Stacy! You’re a 
wicked boy! It isn’t yours! Give it to me 
directly!” 

Stacy waved it in the air. 

“Three cheers for the crosspatch’s rag!” he 
shouted; then racing into the farmyard, he 
flung it into the pig-pen. 

“That’s where it ought to be, and all your 
other rags too, for making you so disagree- 
able !” 

Then he fled, and Cherry rescued her pretty 
apron, and shed tears when she found it 
quite impossible to go on working it. 

“I don’t know what Miss Arnold will say! 
It’s quite spoilt, and I hate Phil, and I hate 
Stacy, and I’ll never do anything they want 
me to do for them!” 

She went up to the schoolroom, and got 
out a small flannel petticoat to work at. 
Just as she was sitting down, Bonnie put 
her rosy face inside the door. 

“Cherry, father and me thinks it would be 
nice to go and pick some bluebells in the 
wood by the church ; father is going to sleep. 
Do come with me. Father and me thinks 
you oughted to!” 


CHERRY 


134 

“I’m not going out.” 

“Oh, Cherry, do come! Leave your hor- 
rid work. It’s always keeping you!” 

Then Cherry turned upon her little sister 
angrily : 

“It isn’t horrid work at all. You and the 
boys can call me names if you like, but I 
shan’t come with you anywhere. You’re 
always bothering me. Leave me alone!” 

Bonnie opened her eyes. 

“You are a very cross girl to-day,” she re- 
marked. “And father and me thinks you’re 
much crosser than you used to be!” 

Cherry’s temper now overflowed. She 
sprang forward with flashing eyes, and 
struck her little sister. Bonnie burst into 
tears, and then fled from the room; whilst 
Cherry sat down again, threaded a needle 
with trembling fingers, and thought herself 
the most miserable child in the whole wide 
world. 


X 


A SICK-HOUSE 

She did not hear a door open and shut, 
but started suddenly when a hand was laid 
on her shoulder. 

“My dear little friend, what is the matter?’^ 

Cherry turned, and saw to her amaze- 
ment that it was Miss Arnold. 

“Yes, you may well look surprised to see 
me. But I have been paying a visit to the 
Vicarage, and thought I would look in here 
on my way back. Why, Cherry, tears? 
Now tell me all about it!” 

Cherry had thrown her work down, and 
burst into a passion of tears. In a few min- 
utes she had told Miss Arnold all; she 
brought the little soiled pinafore and showed 
it to her. 

“They are horrid boys !” she sobbed; “and 
so is Bonnie, and I’ve been horrid too, and 
I don’t think my work is any good at all, 
and I’m quite miserable!” 

Miss Arnold took her in her arms, and 
tried to comfort her. 

“You are tired out, poor mite. You sit at 
your work too long. Now, put it away, and 


CHERRY 


136 

come out with me. We will ‘cumber’ for the 
rest of the afternoon. Isn’t that a delicious 
word? I find myself using it on every pos- 
sible occasion.” 

“I’m sure I oughtn’t to come out,” Cherry 
sobbed. “I told Bonnie I wouldn’t, and it 
would be a lie if I did. I’ve quarrelled with 
everybody, and they all hate me!” 

“Nonsense! I shall take you for a tiny 
drive, and bring you back again much the 
better for it. My head is so full of a de- 
lightful idea of mine, that I want to tell you 
all about it. Run along, and get your hat 
on, and wash those tears away. I give you 
five minutes, for my carriage is waiting at 
the door!” 

Cherry protested no more. She saw Miss 
Arnold meant what she said, and when she 
was seated amongst the soft cushions by her 
side, feeling the summer breeze fan her heated 
little face, she raised her head with a long- 
drawn sigh of relief. 

“You ought not to shut yourself up in that 
hot, stuffy schoolroom this lovely weather,” 
said Miss Arnold, looking down upon her. 
“It does you more harm than good. I shall 
give you no more work to take home, if you 
slave away at it so!” 

“But I work so slowly and I can’t get it 
done,” said Cherry with a very long face. 

“There is no tearing hurry for it.” 


A SICK-HOUSE 


137 

Cherry was silent. She looked out at the 
buttercup meadows, at the cows drinking by 
the river, and the village children playing on 
the bridge. Her little spirit was becoming 
soothed and quieted; but her conscience 
quickened. 

“I’ve been very unkind and wicked,” she 
said presently. “And I wish I had made 
Phil’s bag for him.” 

“I saw him at the vicarage when I called. 
Grace, the eldest girl was making it for him. 
Poor girl! 1 felt sorry for her. She was 
surrounded by the children and a mending 
basket ; and the piles of little stockings in it 
looked to my eyes long past mending.” 

“And Bonnie is out alone,” went on 
Cherry, “and father doesn’t like her to wan- 
der by herself” 

“I can relieve your mind about her. She 
was at the vicarage too, playing in the gar- 
den with the twins.” 

“I suppose she’s told them I hit her, and 
Phil has told them I wouldn’t make his bag ; 
and now they’ll hate me too!” 

Cherry’s tone was very sad. 

“Now, I did not bring you out to keep 
thinking of your woes,” said Miss Arnold 
brightly. “Let us talk of something else. 
Would you not like to hear what is filling 
my head at present? Now listen! Your lit- 
tle playfellows at the vicarage, and their 


CHERRY 


138 

father and mother and whole family, are in 
it. I’m afraid they’re very, very poor.” 

“Nettie says they are,” said Cherry 
gravely. “She says her mother would give 
her little brothers and sisters better clothes 
than they have to wear. And Nettie’s cousin, 
who goes there to clean, says they have no 
butter for breakfast, only dripping ; and 
bacon instead of meat for dinner. I think I 
should like that. They can’t be very poor. 
Miss Arnold, for they have such a nice big 
house and garden!” 

“Well, listen. Cherry, only it must be a 
great secret between us. We will give the 
clothes we are making to them. I think 
they will be more suitable; but they must 
not find out who sends them. I shall make 
up a parcel and send it by mail. Do you 
think you could keep the secret?” 

Cherry looked a little doubtful. 

“They will see me working,” she said. 

“I am not going to give you any more to 
do at home. It is a mistake ; it is too much 
for you.” 

“Oh, no, please let me do it. I won’t cry 
about it any more, and I’ll try not to be 
cross with Bonnie and the boys.” 

But Miss Arnold was firm. 

“You shall come to me every Saturday. If 
you give up your half holiday once a week, 
that is quite enough. Don’t you think it 


A SICK-HOUSE 


139 

will be very nice to make frocks for your 
little friends?” 

“They are not quite poor people,” said 
Cherry. 

The plan did not commend itself to her at 
first. She would have been better pleased to 
clothe some ragged beggars. But Miss Ar- 
nold had set her heart upon it; and talked 
away until at last Cherry began to take a 
deep interest in it all. 

“And it is nice,” she said, “to have a real 
secret about it with you.” 

It was not till they were coming home, 
that a shadow again crossed Cherry’s sensi- 
tive little face. 

“Miss Arnold, I heard a sermon yester- 
day.” 

“Did you? So did I. Was yours a nice 
one?” 

“I couldn’t understand it, and yet I did a 
little. Mr. Allan talked about fruit. Mr. 
Hastings always makes us learn the text of 
the sermon for our Sunday lesson. Shall I 
say it to you?” 

“Yes, dear.” 

Cherry folded her small hands together, 
and repeated reverently: 

“ ‘The fruit of the spirit is love, joy, peace, 
long-suffering, gentleness, goodness, faith, 
meekness, temperance.’ Mr. Allan talked in 
his sermon about fruit for God. He said 


CHERRY 


140 

everybody, even children, could bear fruit. 
But then he said a lot more about vine and 
branches. He read it in the Bible, and I 
don’t know where it comes. He said some- 
thing about none of us being able to bear 
fruit without Jesus. I can’t remember any 
more. But I was thinking to-day, and it 
made me unhappy, that the Bible doesn’t 
say an3rthing about needlework being a fruit. 
Do you think it is? You know, I shouldn’t 
like not to have proper fruit.” 

“My dear child,” said Miss Arnold a little 
impatiently, “you are a regular little self- 
torturer ! Why do you get hold of such per- 
plexing theology? We don’t want to cumber 
the ground, by doing nothing, so we’re doing 
something, and that something is clothing 
the poor. Don’t you upset my self-satisfac- 
tion in my own virtue! Your text mentions 
goodness and love. We’re doing good to 
our neighbours, because we love them. So 
we are certain to be right.” 

“It says such a lot of different things,” 
said Cherry, “I’m sure I shall never have all 
of them ; and if I am a proper fruit tree I 
ought to have!” 

The carriage stopped, for Cherry had 
reached her home. Miss Arnold bent for- 
ward and kissed her. 

“There, run along! You are looking better 
already; if you won’t worry yourself into 


A SICK-HOUSE 


141 

fiddlesticks over sermons that are above your 
head ! And not a stitch of work are you to 
do till you come over to me next Saturday. 
Now, remember!’’ 

Cherry promised, arid went into the house 
feeling relieved. Tea was ready in the school- 
room, but only Bonnie was there. She 
looked up a little frightened as Cherry en- 
tered. 

“Oh, Bonnie, I’m so sorry. Forgive me, 
darling!” 

The sisters kissed each other lovingly, and 
peace was made. Bonnie began giving an 
excited account of all she had been sa3ring 
and doing, and then Mr. Hastings came in. 

“Where are the boys?” he asked. 

“They are up on the top of the church 
tower,” said Bonnie. “They is going to 
shoot at the enemy. I don’t know where he 
is, but they said they would do for him.” 

At this moment the door was flung open, 
and the boys rushed in — Phil looked a little 
scared. 

“I’m afraid I’ve done something stupid,” 
he said, turning to his tutor appealingly; 
“but it shows that my invention is all 
right.” 

“What have you done?” asked Mr. Hast- 
ings briefly. 

“I’ve fired ofi some arrows — awfully good 
ones they were, and they smashed old Crew’s 


CHERRY 


142 

greenhouse just the other side of the church- 
yard. He’s in an awful passion and says 
he’ll make me pay forty shillings, and I’m 
afraid he’ll go to father. Could you go out 
and make it right with him?” 

“You don’t expect me to pay him forty 
shillings, do you?” said Mr. Hastings drily. 
“Now, I wonder why you could not have 
kept out of mischief to-day? Yesterday I had 
to send you to apologize to the sexton for 
ringing his bell; Saturday you ” 

“Oh, please, please forget!” said Phil, 
dancing up and down with impatience. “He 
is at the back door now; don’t remind me 
of all my past wickedness, but do save me 
from one of father’s looks!” 

“Father looks lovely always!” put in Bon- 
nie impetuously. 

Mr. Hastings shrugged his shoulders, and 
went out of the room. 

“Hastings is a trump!” said Stacy; “you 
were such a chump, Phil ! It’s a mercy you 
didn’t smash up Crew besides his green- 
house!” 

“If I had, he wouldn’t have wanted forty 
shillings!” said Phil thoughtfully. 

“Well, look here, I’m awfully hungry. Let’s 
begin tea.” 

They drew up their chairs to the table 

“Are you in a better temper. Crosspatch?” 
Stacy said to Cherry. 


A SICK-HOUSE 


143 

*‘Yes,’^ was Cherry’s quiet reply. “I’m not 
cross now, and I’m sorry I was cross this 
afternoon. I’m not going to do any more 
work, so I shan’t be so busy.” 

“Oh, I’ll give you plenty to do for me,” 
said Phil. “You needn’t stop working. My 
pockets are full of holes. That stupid Nettie 
pretends to mend them; but she’s no good 
at all. My stockings would give auntie a 
fit, if she were to see them.” 

They chatted away till Mr. Hastings came 
in. 

“Your pocket money must be stopped for 
a month, Phil. I hope it will teach you a 
lesson.” 

Phil looked very dismayed. 

“What did he say! He is an old beast!” 

“Hush! You are at fault, not he.” 

Tea was rather a silent meal after this. 
When the little girls were going to bed, Bon- 
nie said: 

“Cherry, I’m glad dear God didn’t make 
me a boy. They does do such scrapes, and 
they always comes out wrong!” 

“Well,” said Cherry, sighing ; “Phil has been 
naughty to-day, but I’ve been worse. It’s 
very dfficult thing to be good — very.” 

“But dear God will make us good when 
we get to heaven,” said Bonnie cheerfully. 

And with this comforting assurance Cherry 
fell asleep. 


CHERRY 


144 

One day about a week after this, Miss 
Arnold gave a strawberry party. The vicar- 
age children as well as the little St. Legers 
were invited; and they thoroughly enjoyed 
their day. 

There were several grown-up people there, 
and amongst them was Mrs. Crawford. 

She gazed at Miss Arnold in astonishment, 
as she saw her surrounded by the children; 
and just before she left she spoke to her. 

Miss Arnold was tying up one of Bessie 
Allan’s little shoes. Cherry was standing 
by her side, imploring her to come and play 
hide-and-seek with them. 

“Do come and hide with me; it will be 
much greater fun if you come.” 

“Of course I will. Oh, Mrs. Crawford, must 
you be going?” 

“My dear Blanche,” said Mrs. Crawford 
with slow emphasis, “allow me to congrat- 
ulate you on your party. And may I say 
how pleased I am to see you at last rous- 
ing yourself to take interest in others, and 
in not living entirely for self! I have always 
regretted that with health and strength and 
moderate wealth you should have led such 
an idle, useless existence. How often I tried 
to interest you in our schools and parish 
matters! May I hope ” 

“No, Mrs. Crawford,” interrupted Miss Ar- 
nold, laughing, “you may hope nothing 


A SICK-HOUSE 


HS 

about me. I shall only disappoint you. I 
have my freaks. Be thankful if they are not 
wicked ones!’^ 

She shook hands with her and wished her 
good-by. 

When she had gone, Miss Arnold turned to 
Cherry : 

“There are some people in the world who 
always make me long to be wicked, Cherry. 
I feel as if I must cumber all my days now. 
Do you know the feeling?” 

Cherry could not say she did, but she took 
Miss Arnold off to join in their game, and 
thought her the very funniest, dearest per- 
son in the world. 

The little St. Legers returned home about 
seven in the evening, very tired and happy. 
Phil seemed the only one out of sorts. He 
complained of a sore throat and headache, 
and was decidedly cross. The next morning 
Stacy knocked at his tutor’s door. 

“Please, Mr. Hastings, come and see Phil. 
He says he won’t get up, and I can’t make 
him.” 

Mr. Hastings obeyed this summons at once. 
He found Phil with a hot, flushed face, heavy 
eyes, and an aching head. 

“I’m going to be ill,” he said gruffly. “I 
believe those strawberries poisoned me yes- 
terday.” 

Mr. Hastings laughed at him, but told 
10 


CHERRY 


146 

him to lie still, and came into the school- 
room with an anxious face. He wrote a 
note to the doctor, and asked Goff to 
take it, and he seemed preoccupied at break- 
fast. 

The children were very much excited over 
Phil. None of them had ever remembered 
being ill. 

‘‘He was quite silly in the night,” said 
Stacy. “He woke me up by yelling out that 
Agnes was spoiling his arrow machine, and 
then he said I was trying to boil his head 
in a saucepan. I expect he’s going to have 
an awful illness. Perhaps he has got a sun- 
stroke.” 

“Or smallpox,” said Cherry, “or apple- 
plexy !” 

“Perhaps he’ll die,” said Bonnie, with big 
eyes. 

“I know what he’s got,” said Stacy sud- 
denly. “It’s scarlet fever. It’s in the vil- 
lage; they’ve got it at the shop we get our 
sweets from. Phil was there two days ago, 
and Mrs. Sykes was telling him about her 
youngest boy.” 

“Why did you not tell me?” asked Mr. 
Hastings sharply. “You ought not to have 
been there.” 

Stacy was right in his conjecture. When 
the doctor came, he pronounced it to be a 
case of scarlet fever. Stacy and the little 


A SICK-HOUSE 


H7 

girls were moved to the farthest end of the 
house. The doctor said they had been so 
much together that it was no good send- 
ing them away until he was perfectly sure 
they were free from infection. 

The Colonel was consulted by Mr. Hast- 
ings. 

“Would you like me to attend to him, 
Colonel? I have no fear of infection. I 
should like to be with him, but in that case 
I cannot be with the other children. Would 
you prefer a nurse being secured?” 

Colonel St. Leger looked worried. 

“You really must settle things, Hastings, 
without coming to me. I hate strange wom- 
en in the house. They upset everybody. 
Let the lessons go, and if you will attend 
to the boy I shall be grateful.” 

Stacy danced round the schoolroom with 
delight when he heard there were going to 
be no lessons. He started off for the vicar- 
age at once in search of Angus, but was 
disgusted when the vicar came himself to 
the door and told him he could not be ad- 
mitted. 

“You are in quarantine, my boy. I am 
sorry, but I would rather you did not come 
near my little ones yet. Dr. Ball has just 
called and warned me.” 

Stacy came home very indignant. Cherry 
and Bonnie did their best to console him; 


CHERRY 


148 

but two days after, bis throat was sore, and 
he was removed to the sick part of the 
house. 

“I hope I shall get ill next,” Cherry con- 
fided to Bonnie. “It must be so nice to stay 
in bed and be nursed, and have beef tea and 
jelly in the middle of the morning. It is so 
very dull without the boys.” 

Every morning she felt her throat with 
her fingers, and looked anxiously into the 
glass to see if she was red and hot as the 
boys had been. And then one afternoon 
Bonnie refused to play, and climbed into 
an easy-chair in the schoolroom. 

“My head hurts,” she said. 

Cherry felt quite angry with her. 

“You’re pretending, Bonnie. Why should 
your head hurt more than mine does? 
You’re pretending to be ill!” 

“I is very, very ill,” said Bonnie in ag- 
grieved tones. 

When she was taken away, and Cherry 
was left alone in the empty schoolroom, the 
latter felt quite ill-used, and burst into tears. 

“It’s a shame! Why should they be all ill, 
and leave me alone? Why shouldn’t I be ill 
before Bonnie? Oh, I do hope I shall catch 
it too!” 

But she did not catch it. She wandered 
about the house feeling lonely and miserable ; 
and the climax seemed to be when Miss 


A SICK-HOUSE 


149 

Arnold wrote her the following little note in 
round, printed letters: 

“MY DEAREST LITTLE CHERRY: “How sorry I 
am for you ! And doubly sorry that I am going away 
from home for a short visit to friends in London. But 
in any case our working party must stop. You could 
not sew, as long as there is any fear of infection. l 
hope you are not going to take it too. I am glad to 
hear that it is a very mild form, and hope your broth- 
ers will soon be better. I am taking some work with 
me to London, so that I shall not cumber there. 

“Much love, hoping to see you after my return. 

“Your loving friend, 

“BLANCHE ARNOLD.” 

Cherry sobbed afresh after she read this. 

“And now I shall be further off than ever 
from getting fruit,” she said mournfully to 
herself; “I’m no good to anybody. I always 
seem left out. I can’t even be ill like the 
others.” 


XI 


A TALK WITH “FATHER” 

Cherry’s mind was not allowed to dwell 
upon herself and her own shortcomings for 
long. Bonnie was very ill indeed, and not 
expected to recover. The Colonel had re- 
ceived the daily bulletins from the sick-room 
with great composure, but when Bonnie was 
ill he grew anxious. She had wound herself 
into his heart, and he missed her daily com- 
panionship intensely. Cherry was with him 
a great deal, but she could not take Bonnie’s 
place. When he heard her little life was in 
danger, he seemed utterly crushed. He sent 
Goff for Cherry. She came with tear-stained 
eyes, and ran straight into his arms. 

“Oh, father, father, do say Bonnie won’t 
die!” 

A great lump rose in the Colonel’s throat. 

“What can we do?” he said helplessly; 
“what can we do to save her?” 

Cherry looked up with hope dawning in 
her dark eyes. “Send for auntie, father! 
She said she would come if we wanted her. 
She will know what to do. Oh, do send for 
her!” 


A TALK WITH “FATHER’’ 151 

The Colonel despatched a telegram in- 
stantly by Goff; then paced his room with 
hasty, uneven steps. Cherry sat watching 
him. Presently he turned to her. “I believe 
she will die. She is so unnatural, always 
talking about her ‘dear God.’ If your 
mother were alive. Cherry, she would pray 
about it. I believe that would — er — be a 
good thing to do.” 

“Shall we pray, father?” 

Cherry’s voice was timid. The Colonel 
stopped in his walk, and looked at her. 

“I don’t know much about it,” he said, 
“but I think you could manage a prayer, 
couldn’t you?” 

It was pitiful to see the strong grown man 
appealing helplessly to the tiny child. 

Cherry nodded. 

“I’ll ask God, father. He can make her 
better, if nobody else can, can’t He?” 

She knelt down by her father’s couch; he 
turned irresolutely, locked the door, then 
knelt by her side. And Cherry prayed. 

“Oh, God, please don’t let Bonnie die, 
father and me want her to live, please make 
her better. We ask you please to get her 
well again as quick as you can. For Jesus 
Christ’s sake. Amen.” 

The Colonel remained on his knees with 
his face hidden in his hands. A groan es- 
caped him, and Cherry heard him say: 


CHERRY 


152 

miserable sinner — will bedifierent — can’t 
really live without her.” 

When he rose to his feet, he began to talk 
about Bonnie, and Cherry was only too 
glad to tell him all she could about her. 

“Bonnie always has been good ever since 
she was born. She never gets cross, and she 
loves God very much. She’s always talking 
about Him.” 

She talked on, till Goff came back to his 
master, and she was summoned to go to her 
early dinner. Cherry never forgot that mis- 
erable day. It was gray outside as well as 
in, for it was raining fast; she sat in the 
empty schoolroom looking out of the win- 
dow, and wondering what she would do if 
Bonnie died. Nettie came in from time to 
time, but she had no comfort to offer her ; 
only the assurance that Mr. Tipkins was 
quite certain that “Miss Bonnie were sinkin’ 
fast!” She had her early dinner, and sat on 
looking out at the misty hills and dripping 
trees, wondering in a vague kind of way if 
the blue sky of which Bonnie was so fond 
knew what was going on, and was weeping 
at the thought of her death. 

Tea-time came. She asked Goff if she might 
go to her father. 

“Sure, missy, I’d be the one to let ye in as 
aisy as me bed is to meself, but the Colonel 
be powerfu’ upset; an’ he sez to me, ‘Goff,’ 


A TALK WITH “FATHER” 153 

he sez, ‘ye’U kape me door fast to all but 
the docthor!’ ” 

Cherry sighed. She sat down to her tea, 
but hardly touched it. Was she always go- 
ing to be alone? Would Stacy and Phil get 
worse and die, too? Would they aU leave 
her? Tears gathered and fell, and then sud- 
denly the door opened, and Mrs. Burton 
with her motherly face and smile appeared. 

“My poor little Cherry, I have come to 
you!” 

Cherry clung to her with deep sobs. 

“Don’t go! Don’t shut yourself up away 
from me! They have all gone! Oh, don’t 
go away and leave me!” 

Mrs. Burton sat down, took her on her 
lap, and soothed her. “Darling, do you re- 
member Bonnie? You would not keep me 
from her, would you? You were always 
brave and unselfish, you will show me that 
you are going to be brave now. Dear little 
sunny Bonnie! I hear she has no nurse; and 
Mr. Hastings is nearly worn out.” 

“There’s a woman in the village,” said 
Cherry, “she went to Bonnie yesterday; but 
oh, I will be brave, auntie, only kiss me! 
I have wanted you so much!” 

“I must have a cup of tea before I go to 
Bonnie; will you give me one?” 

Cherry dried her tears. Mrs. Burton in- 
sisted upon her eating something with her, 


CHERRY 


154 

and slie talked away cheerfully till the child 
had recovered her composure, then she drew 
her to her. 

“Now I am going to my work, and you 
must do yours. We must both pray that 
Bonnie’s life may be spared. You have your 
father to wait on, and to comfort. He is 
very sad. I have just been talking to him; 
but he would like you to go and sit with 
him till your bed-time. I will let you know 
very often how Bonnie is getting on. Good- 
night, dear. Cheer up, and we will hope 
that very soon Bonnie will have turned the 
corner.” 

She kissed her and left her, for her time 
was precious ; but Cherry’s misery was past. 
Auntie was here; she would see to every- 
thing, and Bonnie might get better. She ran 
out into the passage and called for Nettie to 
come and help her change her frock. Then 
she ran lightly down-stairs to her father’s 
room, with a brighter face than she had had 
for many days. 

In a few days’ time the danger was past, 
and Bonnie was slowly recovering. Cherry 
and her father were much together now ; she 
was learning how to do things for him, and 
her old-fashioned quaintness amused and im 
terested him. One day they went for a 
drive; he had for some time been carefully 
selecting a pair of horses, and when once his 


A TALK WITH ‘‘FATHER” 155 

choice was made lie was anxious to try them. 
It was a lovely afternoon when he took his 
little daughter out with them for the first 
time. 

Cherry was delighted. She sat up by her 
father’s side, feeling very grand and impor- 
tant. And it was during this drive that her 
father began to talk to her in a way that 
he had never done before. 

Perhaps it was her sedateness that made 
him forget her age ; he talked to her as if she 
were nearly grown up, and Cherry was de- 
lighted. 

“I hope my health is mending. I did not 
seem to care much about it when I first came 
home ; but I am beginning to realize that life 
is not yet over for me. I do not often talk 
to you about your mother, but she was a 
saint; and my hope is that you may grow 
up to follow in her steps. I am never — and 
remember my words. Cherry — I am never 
going to put any stranger in her place. 
That is why I have kept you children with- 
out any lady to look after you. You are the 
eldest girl and I want you to become accus- 
tomed from the very beginning to stand 
alone. I want you to grow up, and step 
into your mother’s place. I shall expect you 
to be the mistress of the household later. 
Try to learn everything you can about house- 
keeping, so that it will come easily to you. 


CHERRY 


156 

Your motlier knew how to make home com 
fortable; she arranged and saw to everjv 
thing. I am afraid she spoilt me. I never 
had to think of a thing; she was better at 
money matters than I was, and when I lost 
her I felt quite at sea!” 

He paused, and sank into a sad reverie. 
Cherry’s little voice roused him. She was 
speaking in a quick, earnest tone, and her 
eyes glowed with feeling. 

“Oh, father, I will try! I will get on with 
my sums as fast as I can. Does the rule of 
three and fractions help you to understand 
money? I will do my very best. I wish I 
could grow up quicker, now you want me 
to be grown up. I will ask Mrs. Tipkins to 
teach me things. And, father, I will try to 
spoil you, too. I will let you do nothing at 
all — nothing! And I will do everything!” 

Her little heart swelled with pride and 
yearning as she spoke, and Colonel St. Leger 
felt ashamed as he listened to her last em- 
phatic words. He laughed it off. 

“Fou spoil me!” he said; “can a mouse 
spoil a lion? And yet. Cherry, you little 
people can do a good deal toward making 
your elders happy!” 

Cherry looked puzzled. 

“I thought grown-up people were always 
happy,” she said. 

The Colonel shook his head, but relapsed 


A TALK WITH “FATHER” 157 

into silence. Cherry did not break it till the 
drive was nearly over. Then she said, re- 
flectively — and more to herself than her 
father: 

“There’s one thing, I couldn’t possibly be 
a cumberer if I do all you want me to ! I’m 
sure I couldn’t be one, if I do everything 
properly; only it is such a long time to 
wait!” 

Her father did not ask her what she meant. 
He did not much like the subject of “cum- 
berers.” 

It was a day or two after this that Cher- 
ry received a letter from Miss Arnold. She 
was delighted with it, but was unable to read 
it, as Miss Arnold did not write a very clear 
hand, and had forgotten to print it, as she 
had done before. For a long time she sat in 
the schoolroom puzzling over it. She asked 
Nettie to help her ; but Nettie was no scholar, 
and at last she stepped along quietly to her 
father’s room, and begged admission. 

“Father, could you read this to me?” she 
asked. “I wish I was cleverer. I suppose 
Miss Arnold forgets how stupid I am.” 

She looked so despondent that Colonel 
St. Leger put down his morning paper with- 
out a grumble, and read aloud: 

“DEAR LITTLE CHERRY: I do feel so sorry for 
you, for I know how lonely you must be. And I feel 
you will think I am not a friend for adversity, as I 


CHERRY 


ij8 

have left your neighborhood when perhaps you need 
me most ! I thought you would like to know that I 
have made up a big bundle of our clothes, have added 
a few more in London, and am packing a box which I 
shall send ” 

“Please, father, stop!” interrupted Cherry, 
with crimson cheeks, “It’s a secret, and I 
don’t know what to do.” 

“Oh, well,” said Colonel St. Leger care- 
lessly as he handed her the letter back, “you 
should not ask me to read it, if the contents 
are to be a mystery.” 

Cherry was rather near tears. 

“But I can’t read it myself. It’s only a 
secret I don’t want the boys to know, be- 
cause they will tell. You won’t tell, father, 
will you? Oh, do read it to me, please; I 
must hear it!” 

So the Colonel took it back from her, and 
continued : 

“ which I shall send anonymously from town to the 

Vicarage. You must tell me if you hear anything about 
it, only be sure to keep our secret tight! I am afraid 
I shall be away for some time longer. I have come 
across an old governess of mine who is ill and who 
wants sea air, so I am looking after her, and am go- 
ing to take her away with me for a little. I want to 
make up for all past ‘cumbering’ if I can ! By the way, 
dear, I have been looking into the verse you spoke to 
me about, and strangely enough came across it in a 
book that I bought the other day. I have come to the 
conelusion that bearing fruit is not so easy, and needle- 
work for the poor is only a very tiny part of it ; some- 


A TALK WITH “FATHER” 159 

thing like the core of an apple ! The lists of fruits you 
discovered are the genuine ones, but how to arrive 
at them is the problem! However, we will both try 
hard. I think they will come easier to you than to 
me! 

“Your loving friend, 

“BLANCHE.” 

“What is she talking about?” asked the 
Colonel, as he folded up the letter and 
handed it back to Cherry. 

“It^s a text I learnt,” said Cherry a little 
shyly. “It is one we had in church. I think 
I remember it. ‘The fruit of the Spirit is 
love, joy, peace, long-suffering, gentleness, 
goodness, faith, meekness, temperance.’ But 
I don’t understand them coming easy to me. 
They’re very, very hard, I should think; 
much harder than making petticoats!” 

Her father said no more, and she left him, 
tucking her precious letter into her pocket, 
and wondering if the little Allans had re- 
ceived their wonderful box. 

“I wish I could see them,” she thought; 
“but it is no good, I mustn’t go near them, 
and I shall never hear about it!” 

But she did hear. 

She was playing by herself in the garden a 
few days later, and had wandered down to 
the iron gate at the end of the drive, when 
she heard her name called in shrill trebles, 
and looking out, she saw the vicarage twins 
walking by. 


i6o CHERRY 

‘‘I mustn’t speak to you,” said Cherry, re- 
treating hastily. 

“Oh, yes, if we stay this side of the road, 
and we’ll scream to make you hear us,” 
cried Ruth, “for we want to tell you some- 
thing lovely.” 

“Yes,” said Faith excitedly, “we’ve had a 
lovely big surprise, and I think a fairy god- 
mother must have sent it.” 

“Mother doesn’t know, and father doesn’t, 
and Grace doesn’t, where it comes from, and 
it was written, ‘Mrs. Allan, with best wishes 
from a friend.’ ” 

“And, oh, such a box, and quite new frocks 
and pinafores and petticoats! We’ve never 
had new clothes before, and two red frocks 
fit us egsackly, and a shawl for mother, and 
lots of things for baby, and a big iced cake, 
and story books.” 

“And it was sent by nobody — and, oh. 
Faith, mother said she didn’t want us to 
chatter about it!” 

“But Cherry won’t chatter, will she? Isn’t 
it puffickly beautiful?” 

Cherry’s face was beaming. 

“Will you come to church in your new 
frocks next Sunday?” 

“If mother will let us. Mother cried, but 
Grace and father didn’t like it much, and 
then they did. They couldn’t help it, and 
the cake is lovely, and Bessie has a white 


A TALK WITH ^FATHER’’ i6i 


frock, and there are some real kid gloves 
that Grace is going to put on. Real kid!— 
she said they were!” 

Cherry listened to these outbursts with 
great delight. She asked them to describe 
all the frocks and pinafores again to her, 
and when they had done so, and had left 
her, she went back to the house, sa3dng to 
herself: 

“When I grow up and get some money, I 
shall send boxes to everybody who wants 
them.” 


11 


XII 


IN A FARMHOUSE 

The boys and Bonnie were convalescent. 
Mrs. Burton came out of the sick-room, and 
suggested to the Colonel that they should 
be sent to a farmhouse, not very far away, 
to regain their strength, whilst their rooms 
were being cleaned and repapered. She knew 
the people who kept the farm; and Colonel 
St. Leger willingly agreed. But she had 
hardly made the necessary arrangements 
for the move before Mr. Hastings collapsed. 
He had been very faithful in nursing the 
boys, and had thought by this time he was 
quite free from infection, but the doctor came 
and told him he had caught the fever. 

Colonel St. Leger was worried at once. 

“Who is to go with the boys? Hastings 
sees to everything. It is really most unfor- 
tunate.’^ 

“Will you not go yourself. Colonel?” said 
Mrs. Burton. “Your man would make you 
comfortable there, and the doctor thinks it 
would be quite safe for Cherry to join you 
in a fortnight’s time. The children would 
be very good, and Mrs. Watkins, the farm- 
er’s wife, would look after them.” 


IN A FARMHOUSE 163 

The Colonel fumed and grumbled and 
begged Mrs. Burton to accompany them. 
This she said she could not do. ‘T will see 
Mr. Hastings through the worst. He seems 
to have no friends, poor young fellow, and 
I could not leave him; but directly I am 
off duty here I must return to my husband.” 

So at last the Colonel said he would go. 
Poor Cherry watched the departure through 
the window, and though not allowed to go 
near Bonnie and the boys, she was able to 
talk to them as they stood outside, watch- 
ing their luggage being piled on the cab. 
Bonnie looked very small and white, and 
was enveloped in wraps; the boys seemed 
much the same, but without their usual rosy 
color. They all waved their hands to Cherry 

“You’re coming in a fortnight!” they cried. 

Colonel St. Leger stooped to kiss his little 
daughter. 

“Goff must try to manage us all till you 
come and help him,” he said cheerily. “In 
ten days’ time we shall expect you.” 

That fortnight seemed the longest that 
Cherry had ever spent. She turned to Aber- 
crombie for comfort, and many were the long 
theological discussions they held together in 
the sunny garden. 

Fruit-bearing of course was their chief 
topic. 

“How shall ye ken ye are fruit-bearin’, las- 


CHERRY 


164 

sie? Ay, if ye be called an’ chosen by th’ 
Almighty, if the Speerit be abidin’ in ye, then 
the fruits of the Speerit will shew their ain 
selves.” 

“But how shall I know I have the Spirit?” 
Cherry would ask anxiously. 

Abercrombie’s information on this point 
was vague and unsatisfactory. He talked 
a great deal about the elect and the predes- 
tined, and Cherry tried to understand, and 
could not, and was depressed in consequence. 

At last the fortnight came to an end, and 
Nettie was busy packing the box to join the 
others at the farmhouse. 

Cherry came round the garden for the last 
time, and Abercrombie found her standing 
by her little tree with a grave face. She 
turned at his approach. 

“A,B,C, I’ve been thinking. Have you 
done what the gardener did to the fig-tree 
in the Bible? You never seem to do any- 
thing to my little tree.” 

“Na,” said Abercrombie, rubbing his head 
and looking at it critically. “I canna say 
I ever have. ’Tis a sad peety it be so un- 
fruitful.” 

“But won’t you dig it about, and try to 
make it have cherries next year? Why 
shouldn’t it? It isn’t a dead tree. I do 
want it to have fruit so much.” 

Her tone was pathetic. The old gardener 


IN A FARMHOUSE 


165 

took a branch in his hand and looked at it ; 
then he bent down and touched the soil with 
his fingers. 

“Weel, missie, I wull not say it be past car- 
in’ for, an’ I wull dig aboot it a bit an’ pit 
some reecher soil. We wull see nex’ year what 
it comes to. I am thinkin’ it may not have 
ower much sun aboot it. An’ I will be lop- 
pin’ a few branches from that beech, an’ 
then when the sun licht jist streams on the 
puir crittur, happen ’twill blossom in the 
spring-tide.” 

“Oh, thank you!” said Cherry gratefully. 
“I should be so pleased if it had cherries 
next year!” 

Then she put her little hand into the gar- 
dener’s brown, hard-working one. 

“Good-by, A,B,C. I’m so glad to be going 
away! And we’ll all come back together; 
won’t that be nice?” 

“We wull pray that ye may,” said Aber- 
crombie, shaking his head; “but I doot the 
master’s wisdom in takin’ that gowk to look 
after ye aU. He hath no stabeelity o’ pur- 
pose, an’ his kind are verra onrehable!” 

“Shall I give your love to Goff?” asked 
Cherry a little mischievously. 

“I bear him no ill,” said Abercrombie, 
turning away. “I fain would see him steady 
doon, an’ be not so ready wi’ fools’ laughter.” 

Nettie was to go with Cherry to the farm. 


i66 


CHERRY 


Mrs. Tipkins saw them off at the station 
with many injunctions; and when they set 
off, Nettie’s face was grave with anxious care. 
But Cherry was in wild spirits. Her term 
of imprisonment was over. She felt like a 
bird set free from a cage. It was not a 
long journey, and when they arrived at their 
destination Mr. Watkins was awaiting them 
in his spring wagon, and Stacy was by his 
side. The brother and sister greeted each 
other affectionately. Stacy, as usual, had 
plenty to say. 

Directly they drove off he began: 

“It’s stunning here. Cherry. The apples 
are all getting ripe, and the orchard is full 
of them, and father is taking to fishing. 
There is a splendid trout stream two fields 
off, and he is out all day, and yesterday 
Goff took his dinner to him, and we carried 
ours, and we had it by the river. And I 
have borrowed a rod from Mr. Watkins, and 
I’m going to fish to-morrow. And Mrs. 
Watkins makes ripping hot plum cakes. She 
sends them in hot too ; she’s a brick ! There’s 
a huge mastiff called Sawdust. Mrs. Wat- 
kins said the first time she saw him he came 
rolling up to her a little blind puppy cov- 
ered with sawdust, and the name has stuck 
to him. He is awfully fond of me, and Phil 
and I have been making a little cart on 
wheels. It’s a box, you know, but big 


IN A FARMHOUSE 167 

enough for Bonnie to sit in, and we’re go- 
ing to teach Sawdust to draw it. He is 
such fun! And, do you know, the corn is 
going to be cut next week, and there’s go- 
ing to be a big harvest supper, and we’re 
all asked.” 

He paused for breath. Cherry felt she had 
come into a land of dehght. 

“We shall have no lessons,” she said; 
“what long holidays it will be!” 

“How is old Hastings? Poor chap, he was 
awfully good to us ! I was ugly when I was 
ill. I threw a book at his head one day, 
and he never got angry.” 

“He is better. Mrs. Burton is nursing him, 
and she told me to teU you to write some 
letters to him to amuse him.” 

“He’U be looking at the spelling. I’ll tell 
Phil to. He is busy in a barn this afternoon, 
trjdng to make a machine to shell beans and 
peas, and Bonnie is pla3ring with two goats 
in the orchard. One is a black one with a 
white beard called Sambo, and the other 
is a white one called Susy. Here we are! 
I’ll jump down and open the gate.” 

He was out of the cart in a minute, and 
there, behind a white wooden gate, stood 
Bonnie, waving her handkerchief in the air. 
Cherry begged to be allowed to jump down, 
and the next minute she was clasping her 
arms round her sister. 


i68 CHERRY 

‘‘Oh, Bonnie, I’ll never, never be cross to 
you again!” 

“It was a pity you didn’t get ill,” said 
Bonnie in the midst of many kisses. “We 
missed you quite dreadfully. Cherry.” 

They walked up to the old farmhouse that 
looked out upon the orchard with the goats, 
and apples, and Mrs. Watkins met them at 
the door. She was a pleasant, smiling wom- 
an, and Cherry felt no shyness when she 
held out her hand to her. 

“Come in, little Missy. The Colonel is out, 
and the tea is all ready.” 

Cherry looked with admiring eyes round 
the room to which she was taken. It was 
large and old-fashioned, and had cases of 
stuffed birds and owls on the sideboard. 
Colonel St. Leger had his own sitting-room 
on the other side of the hall, but this was 
the children’s own. 

The boys came in, ready for their tea, and 
the little tongues were busy the whole time. 
Before they had finished their meal, the 
Colonel put his head in. 

He seemed to have lost his languor and 
fatigue, and spoke in quite a brisk, cheerful 
tone: 

“So we have got you at last, little woman. 
Now you must keep us all in order.” 

He drew her to him and kissed her. Cherry 
looked up at him affectionately. 


IN A FARMHOUSE 169 

“I thought the time would never come,” 
she said. 

The evening was spent in showing her 
round the farm. Goff welcomed her with his 
usual broad smile. “Arrah, Miss Cherry, an* 
how do ye think the Colonel be lookin’? 
Faith, an’ it’s this place that suits him 
ontoirely!” 

“Do you like it, Goff?” 

“Well, I’ll no be sayin’ I’ve not seed foiner! 
But the trout be gran’, an’ I’m a bit o’ a 
fisher meself. Indade, the Cornel have be- 
taken himself outdoors, an’ nothin’ will kape 
him in. An’ the change be mighty pleas- 
ant!” 

When the little girls were in bed that night 
in a large old-fashioned bed, Bonnie said 
thoughtfully : 

“Has dear God ever been ill. Cherry?” 

Cherry looked quite shocked. 

“What things you say, Bonnie! Of course 
God is never ill. He couldn’t be!” 

“Is it wicked to be ill then?” 

“No, of course it isn’t. God makes you 
ill.” 

“Why does He? It isn’t nice at all. I 
arsked and arsked Him to make me better, 
and when He didn’t, I cried, and then I 
thought He might be very ill Himself, and 
couldn’t hear me.” 

“But God did make you better, Bonnie. 


170 CHERRY 

Father and I asked Him to, and He did hear 

“But He was such a long time. I was ill 
for years and years V' 

“It wasn’t so long as that, Bonnie. P’raps 
God wanted you to lie still and be good. If 
you are in bed you can’t be naughty. 
There’s nothing to make you.” 

“I thinks I was rather cross,” admitted 
Bonnie, “but the boys is dreadfully cross 
now. Phil slapped me yesterday, and he said 
his headache made him.” 

“Does Phil have a headache?” asked Cherry 
wonderingly. “I thought only grown-up 
people had that.” 

“He said he had, and Mrs. Watkins said 
it was the sun. Father and me thinks. 
Cherry, that it will be nice to live in this 
house for ever and ever, and do no lessons 
at all.” 

“I’m tired,” said Cherry sleepily. 

But Bonnie pulled hold of her arm. 

“And, Cherry, listen! We never has prayer 
at all, and father and me thinks you will 
have to read them!” 

Even this awful suggestion failed to rouse 
Cherry. 

“Good-night,” she murmured, and soon 
there was silence in the room. The children 
slept. 

The next morning after breakfast, Cherry 


IN A FARMHOUSE 


171 

and Bonnie knocked at their father’s door. 
Bonnie insisted upon Cherry coming with 
her, and almost the first words she said to 
her father were: 

“Please, dear father, here’s Cherry to have 
prayers.” 

The Colonel frowned, then his eyes fell on 
Cherry. 

“You are getting to look like your 
mother,” he said. “If Hastings always had 
them with you, we had better go on with it. 
Call the boys, Bonnie.” 

Cherry’s knees literally shook under her. 

“I — I — haven’t the book Mr. Hastings reads 
out of, father.” 

The Colonel was sitting in an easy-chair 
by his window. He did not answer, but 
looked out dreamily. 

A vision of his young wife with her Bible 
on her knee rose before his eyes. He turned 
to his little daughter: 

“Yes,” he said, “I should like you to read 
them. Cherry. I want you to grow up like 
your mother. There are some little devo- 
tional books of hers on that shelf. I always 
carry them about with me, and her Bible is 
there too. You may find a book of prayers.” 

Cherry went to the shelf, and after some 
trouble found a little crimson leather book 
containing some prayers. It was for private 
and personal use, but she did not under- 


CHERRY 


172 

stand that. It was a relief to her mind to 
find that there was one. And then the door 
opened and Bonnie ushered in the boys, who 
were in a giggling frame of mind. They 
said “good-morning’’ to their father, and his 
look brought gravity into their faces at 
once. They seated themselves on two chairs 
and stared with great curiosity at Cherry. 
It was a terrible ordeal to her, but since she 
had had that talk with her father, she felt 
she ought never to falter, if he asked her to 
do anything. His words, “I want you to 
grow up like your mother,” would have sent 
her cheerfully to the stake, had that been the 
way to follow her mother’s footsteps. 

Bonnie drew up a chair to her father’s side. 
Cherry sat opposite with the Bible and little 
red book in front of her. 

“What shall I read, father?” she asked in 
a trembling voice. 

“I don’t know,” the Colonel said. “There 
is a marker in the Bible. Begin there.” 

It was the third chapter of St. John. 

Cherry read it steadily through. The boys 
fidgetted, but when they knelt down, and 
Cherry began the prayer, they looked at each 
other in astonishment. 

Her little voice faltered here and there; 
otherwise she read it softly and reverently. 
The Colonel, as he bent his knees, felt as if 
this was a difficult step for him to take. 


IN A FARMHOUSE 


173 

Bygone memories were rushing through his 
brain, he hardly heard the words that were 
being read; but when Cherry came to a 
pause, he lifted his head and made a move- 
ment to rise. 

Bonnie checked him in a loud whisper. 

“We says ‘Our Father’ now!” 

And boys and girls, with the deeper bass 
voice of the Colonel, united together in that 
wonderful universal prayer. 

Then they rose from their knees, and the 
Colonel sent them away. 

Cherry was taken to task by the boys in 
the garden. 

“What did you read such a long chapter 
for?” 

“You liked the sound of your own voice, I 
s’pose!” 

“Don’t you do it again!” 

“And if you’re going to be a prig, say so, 
for we will knock it out of you!” 

“I’m not a prig!” said Cherry warmly. 
“Father told me to read. I didn’t want 
to !” 

“And she did it bu’fully,” said warm- 
hearted Bonnie. “And dear God will be 
sorry if you think He wrote His chapters 
too long!” 

Bonnie was always too much for the boys 
when she decided against them. They turned 
and fled with broad grins on their faces, and 


174 CHERRY 

the little girls went into the orchard to play 
with the goats. 

“Father will come, perhaps,^’ said Cherry. 
“He is so much better here; he walks every- 
where!” 

“Of course he won’t come. Don’t you ask 
him. Tell him we’re going by ourselves.” 

But Cherry was out of hearing. She was 
no longer afraid of going to her father. 

“May we go to church this morning?” she 
asked. 

“To church? Oh, yes, I suppose so, if you 
like it,” said the Colonel carelessly. 

“Won’t you come with us, father?” 

“No, no; don’t worry me.” 

“I suppose,” said Cherry timidly, “we shall 
know the way. The boys say it is a mile 
away.” 

“You must get your maid to go with you 
— what is her name?” 

“Nettie. But, father, the boys won’t walk 
out with Nettie. They couldn’t, because they 
are boys. They call her a nursemaid.” 

“The boys will do as I wish,” the Colonel 
said in his dangerously quiet tone. 

Cherry stood her ground, though she felt 
uncomfortable. 

“Nettie is going to chapel with Mrs. Wat- 
kin this afternoon; she doesn’t come to our 
church.” 

“I really cannot be worried with your 


IN A FARMHOUSE 


175 

churchgoing,’^ said Colonel St. Leger ir- 
ritably. 

Bonnie, who had followed Cherry in, now 
put in her word. 

“Father, dear, do let me walk with you 
just once to church.” 


XIII 


DAY OF MISFORTUNES 

It was Sunday morning, and a lovely 
September day. 

“I don’t like Sundays,” announced Phil at 
the breakfast-table. “Everybody goes to 
sleep here, and the animals are all shut up. 
Even Sawdust lies down in the best parlor 
with Mr. Watkins smoking. There’s nothing 
to do, and we have to wear our best clothes. 
It is rot, tommy-rot!” 

“But don’t you go to church?” asked 
Cherry. 

“No,” said Stacy, “it’s a mile away, and 
we felt unsteady on our legs the first Sunday 
we came. East Sunday was wet; I think 
we might go to-day. It would be something 
to do.” 

The Colonel said nothing for a minute; 
then he surprised Cherry by saying: 

“Just this once I will go with you. Tell 
the boys to be ready to start at half-past 
ten. I understand the service begins at 
eleven.” 

The little girls went back to the boys, de- 
lighted with the success of their mission; 
but Stacy did not look well pleased. 


DAY OF MISFORTUNES 177 

“Father was always an easy-going chap 
at home — he is getting like Hastings. He 
will be teaching ns lessons next. I like him 
best when he is l3ring down, smoking.” 

“I like him always,” said Bonnie indig- 
nantly, “and he isn’t a chap — that’s a school- 
boy. Father is a man!” 

“Go on, you little stupid! You’ll have to 
step out if you walk with father. Soldiers 
always walk in step, and he’ll be in an awful 
rage if you don’t. Your fat duck’s legs will 
give way before we get there.” 

Stacy was rather out of temper. He had 
been looking forward to the walk to church, 
thinking that he would be leader— neither he 
nor Phil was quite at ease in their father’s 
society. He still seemed almost a stranger 
to them. 

When they started for church, the two boys 
went on together ; the little girls walked by 
their father’s side, and Bonnie startled him 
by her breathless, uneven strides. 

“Do you always walk like that?” he asked, 
looking at her curiously. 

“She is tr3dng to step like you,” explained 
Cherry. “The boys told her she would have 
to.” 

Bonnie’s mind was quickly eased on this 
point, and she trotted along for the rest of 
the way quite happily. 

It was a tiny village church they came to, 
12 


CHERRY 


178 

and not a large congregation. Colonel St. 
Leger wondered at himself when he found 
himself packed into a pew with his boys 
and girls ; but with Bonnie's soft little hand 
always stealing into his he resigned himself 
to his fate, and the service soothed and in- 
terested him. 

When they returned home, he shut himself 
up into his room, and told the children not 
to disturb him. And after this he never 
missed going to church with them. The 
vicar called on him, and he discovered that 
he was a former schoolfellow of his ; and as 
the vicar was a keen fisherman, they had 
much in common. 

Those days were very happy ones to the 
children. Cherry, as well as the others, ran 
wild for the time ; but occasionally she would 
have severe pricks of conscience and would 
sit in-doors with Nettie, helping to darn the 
boys’ stockings and sew buttons on their 
clothes. One day stood out, as some days 
do — a day full of misfortune — and they re- 
membered it long afterward. 

It began well, for it was a lovely day, and 
they were allowed to take their lunch out in 
baskets to the top of a hill near by. Nettie 
did not accompany them, for it was wash- 
ing day at the farm, and she had promised 
Mrs. Watkins to lend her a hand. 

It was a bright, sunny morning, and the 


DAY OF MISFORTUNES 179 

children were in brightest spirits. They 
meant to gather blackberries for pudding 
and jam, and the boys were hoping they 
would find some nuts. It was this hope that 
led them, after they had eaten their lunch, to 
descend the hill and make their way toward 
some woods in the distance. Sawdust was 
with them, enjo3ring himself immensely. He 
did not care for solitary runs, but the so- 
ciety of children was always to his taste, 
and he bounded here and there, often nearly 
knocking Bonnie down in his wild excite- 
ment. 

The little girls were soon hard at work 
filling their baskets with ripe blackberries, 
which grew along a thick hedge at the en- 
trance of a wood. The boys joined them for 
a time, then got tired and scrambled into 
the wood. Stacy and Sawdust pushed their 
way on, leaving Phil trying to reach some 
nuts just above his head. The wood seemed 
to stretch away for miles, and the green, 
mossy paths tempted Stacy farther and far- 
ther away. Soon, to his delight. Sawdust 
stirred up two pheasants which had been 
walking under the long grass in front of 
them. Stacy knew nothing of game covers. 
He had been brought up in a town, and 
considered that in the country every wood 
and plantation was free to every one. Saw- 
dust was wiser; he looked with a longing 


i8o 


CHERRY 


eye at the pheasants, but he did not chase 
them; and as numbers more flew away on 
the approach of his blundering body, he 
looked up at Stacy as much as to say: 

‘You see, I cannot help it. I am doing 
my best not to frighten them, but they will 
fly away.” 

“Hi, Phil! Come on!” shouted Stacy. 
“Come and see these birds!” 

Phil was out of hearing. Stacy tore along ; 
the whirr of wings on both sides of him, 
the plaintive cry of a woodcock as he rose 
in the air, the flight of dozens in front of 
him, exhilarated and enchanted him. Saw- 
dust began to get uncomfortable. At last 
he slipped behind and followed Stacy in the 
rear. He made up his mind that he would 
not be responsible for this folly. He remem- 
bered a former playmate being shot for 
chasing sheep ; surely pheasant chasing might 
lead to a similar result. 

And then suddenly Stacy’s run came to an 
end. He turned a corner, heard angry voices, 
and came upon two game-keepers and a very 
excited little man in brown velveteen coat 
and shabby gaiters, with a gun slung across 
his shoulders. 

They looked in astonishment at him, and 
the little man darted forward and laid hold 
of him by the coat-collar, exclaiming with 
an angry oath: 


DAY OF MISFORTUNES i8i 


“You young scoundrel! you vagabond! 
How dare you rout my covers in such a 
fashion? Blake! Forrest! give me a stick! 
I’ll give him the soundest thrashing I’ve 
ever given any one! You fools! to think 
that a stray dog should send such hundreds 
away ! Why, confound it all, there is a dog, 
a monster! Seize him, Blake, you coward! 
Afraid to touch him ! Take hold of this ras- 
cal, and I’ll settle the dog. I’ll put some 
shot through him if there’s no other way.” 

He accompanied each sentence with such 
a violent shake of poor Stacy that the boy 
began to feel quite dazed and stupid. When 
one of the keepers took him, and the little 
gentleman with purple face and glaring eyes 
advanced toward Sawdust, Stacy found his 
voice. 

“If you don’t look out, he’ll bite you. Saw- 
dust, lie down, sir; be quiet! Is the gentle- 
man off his head?” 

This question, put to the keeper, did not 
mend matters. 

“Hold yer tongue, sir! ’Tis his lordship; 
you must be off yours to rush through his 
best cover in such a fashion ! And he has a 
shooting party on to-morrow, and this was 
the best part of all!” 

This was poured out in an undertone, but 
Lord Danvers was too angry to heed it. 
He and the other keeper managed to tie a 


i 82 


CHERRY 


piece of cord to Sawdust’s collar ; and though 
the dog showed great forbearance and only 
gave vent to a low growl when his head 
was touched, the operation was not a pleas- 
ant one. The keeper wiped his forehead 
with his handkerchief, and muttered: 

“His lordship do expec’ one to risk one’s 
life all in a minute ! If he wasn’t such a big 
brute, I’d not object, but there, ’tis over 
now!” 

“Now, Forrest, bring that scamp along. 
I’ll lock him up and commit him to jail! 
I’ll shoot his dog! He shall be sent to a 
reformatory ! He has done more damage 
than a hundred pounds will pay for.” 

It was in vain for Stacy to apologize and 
explain. He was hurried along, and finally 
lodged in an empty stable. Sawdust was 
tied up with him, and the keeper, locking 
and bolting the door on the outside, went 
away and left him in darkness. Stacy was 
more indignant than frightened. 

“Whatever kind of a lord he is, he has an 
awful temper, and I’m not going to spend 
the night here, whatever he may think.” 

He jumped up and began examining his 
prison. His quick eyes soon discerned a trap- 
door in the roof, and in a very short time, 
clambering up to it, he opened it and found 
himself in a low, dusty loft. 

The windows were small, but he managed 


DAY OF MISFORTUNES 183 

to open one and put his head out. He saw 
a yard, and a wagon of hay, which by good 
fortune was standing directly under his win- 
dow. No one seemed to be about. The 
driver was gossiping with two or three girls 
inside the doorway of a small cottage ad- 
joining the yard. 

“I can squeeze myself through and jump 
on to the hay,” was Stacy’s instant thought. 

Then he heard Sawdust whine. 

‘‘Poor Sawdust! I must unlock the door 
and loose him when I am out; he could 
never get up into the loft.” 

Very cautiously he got out of the window. 
It was not a very long drop, and he accom- 
plished it in safety. The horse started, it is 
true, but the driver did not notice him ; and 
Stacy crept up to the stable door. Alas! 
it was locked, and the key had been taken 
away. For a minute he hesitated, then he 
saw to his horror, the carter coming out, 
and away he ran through the yard, down a 
lane, across a field in the high-road; when 
there he paused; he was not sure of his 
way. He dared not go back into the woods, 
for he heard voices and reports of guns 
occasionally. He finally made up his mind 
to go straight home, trusting that his sisters 
would be returning there with Phil; and 
after inquiring the exact road from a man 
who was passing, he set off as fast as he 


CHERRY 


184 

could, wondering to whom he had better 
confide his story, and if it would be neces- 
sary to tell his father. As it happened. Colo- 
nel St. Leger was the first person he met 
when he came to the farm. 

“You are late; where are the girls?” 

“Aren’t they home with Phil?” 

“No, Mrs. Watkins has just been to me. 
Your supper is waiting.” 

The Colonel looked rather sternly at his 
eldest son. Stacy had lost his cap, his collar 
was half off, and he presented a most dis- 
hevelled spectacle. 

“Perhaps,” said his father in his very quiet 
tone, “you will kindly tell me what you have 
been doing. Come into my room.” 

Stacy followed, and stood up with frank 
eyes and red cheeks to tell his tale. 

Colonel St. Leger listened in perfect silence. 
Stacy concluded with: 

“It honestly wasn’t mischief, father. I 
don’t understand now why disturbing a few 
pheasants need have put the old gentleman 
in such an awful rage. And I don’t know 
what Mr. Watkins will say about Sawdust, 
because they may shoot or poison him!” 

In a few terse words the Colonel made 
Stacy aware of the iniquity of his ofience, 
and then sitting down to his table he wrote 
a note to Lord Danvers, and sent oflf Goff 
immediately with it. 


DAY OF MISFORTUNES 185 

“You want your tutor to look after you,” 
he said. “Now you had better go and find 
the others, and bring them home.” 

Stacy left the room, and the Colonel with 
a puckered brow took up his newspaper. 
He had only been congratulating himself that 
afternoon upon the easy time he was having. 
He saw very little more of his children than 
he did at home, and had so far seen little to 
complain of in their behavior. 

This scrape of Stacy’s annoyed him ex- 
tremely, and he began to wonder if the 
other three children had transgressed in the 
same way. 

Voices outside, and a horrified scream from 
Mrs. Watkins, made him open his door has- 
tily. Stacy appeared leading Phil by the 
hand. Phil’s right wrist was bound with a 
blood-stained handkerchief; blood was drip- 
ping from it, and the boy’s face was as 
white as death. 

“He has been shot, father, and he can’t 
stop the bleeding!” 

The Colonel sat down heavily on a chair. 
He seemed for a moment unable to act. 
Then he turned to Mrs. Watkins sternly: 

“Will you stop screaming, and fetch a 
doctor if you can’t attend to it yourself ?” 

“Mercy, sir! The doctor lives six miles 
away, and John be at the town sellin’ a 
calf, and the men be still out in the fields!” 


1 86 CHERRY 

^‘You must have a lad in the yard; tell 
him to go!” 

^ ‘There be only silly Jim— he will be gone 
all night on such an errand. But we have 
the pony in— Jim could harness it, if you 
like to take the young gentleman in the pony 
cart. ’Twould be quicker. Bleedin’ is so 
dangerous, ’tis best to have it seen to!” 

“Have the pony harnessed and brought 
round immediately,” said the Colonel. 
“Now, Phil, come here; let me try my hand 
at bandaging.” 

“I feel so sick and giddy, do you think I’m 
bleeding to death?’ ’ inquired Phil anxiously, as 
he held out his arm bravely toward his father. 

“Pooh, nonsense! You have most likely a 
few small pellets in your wrist. There, I 
thought so! Be a man and bear it. You’re 
a bad hand at bandaging.” 

Colonel St. Leger had risen to the occasion. 
He bandaged the hurt wrist freshly with one 
of his own white handkerchiefs. He poured 
out a glass of wine, and made Phil drink it, 
and then hurried him into the yard. 

When he was in the cart with Phil by his 
side, he turned to Stacy. 

“I suppose you found your sisters?” 

“No,” said Stacy miserably. “I don’t 
know where they are. Phil couldn’t find 
them where we left them. I met Phil and 
brought him back.” 


DAY OF MISFORTUNES 187 

^‘Look for them at once, and don’t come 
home till you have found them,” were the 
Colonel’s last words as he drove out of the 
yard. 

Stacy was very tired; he sat down on an 
old wheelbarrow, and he felt almost in- 
clined to cry. Why was everything going 
wrong? He was hungry and wanted his 
supper; he almost wished he were in Phil’s 
place ! 

Mrs. Watkins came out to console him. 

“I’ll fetch you a piece of bread and butter, 
and then you bring them back as fast as you 
can. You young gentlemen didn’t ought to 
have left them little maids all alone. I’d 
come along the road a bit with you myself, 
but I have my butter all to do for to-mor- 
row’s market.” 

Stacy soon trudged away, bread and but- 
ter in hand. It was getting dusk; and he 
felt more angry with his sisters than anxious 
about them. 

When Colonel St. Leger returned with Phil, 
it was eight o’clock, — quite dark, and neither 
Stacy nor the little girls had returned. 

Phil was sent to bed. His wound was a 
painful one, though not dangerous, and he 
was shaken and faint with loss of blood. 
He told his father how it had happened. 
He was walking through a thick part of the 
wood when he heard voices, and was making 


i88 


CHERRY 


his way toward them, when a brace of 
partridges rose at his feet ; he heard a sharp 
report close to him, and received some of the 
discharge in his wrist. 

“I was so frightened that I ran away as 
hard as I could. I was afraid they would 
shoot me again ! I came out just where we 
had left Cherry and Bonnie, but they weren’t 
there, though they had left one of the bas- 
kets ; and then my arm began to bleed aw- 
fully, and I tried to tie my handkerchief 
round, and then soon after I met Stacy.” 

“It seems,” said the Colonel dryly, “that 
you boys invariably lose your sisters and 
leave them to find their way home by them- 
selves. You are not to be trusted.” 

When the Colonel found the other children 
had not returned he was really anxious. He 
was just going out again, when Goff ap- 
peared with Sawdust. 

He had had great trouble to get him liber- 
ated; but tired as he was with his long 
walk, he at once volunteered to accompany 
the Colonel in his search. 

The two set off, and Mr. Watkins, who had 
just come home, joined them with a lantern. 

Stacy’s scrape had vexed the Colonel; 
Phil’s had alarmed him; but the loss of the 
little girls filled him with anxiety and dis- 
tress. Bonnie was the apple of his eye. 
Cherry had entwined herself round his heart 


DAY OF MISFORTUNES 189 

by her strong likeness to her mother, and as 
he strode along he put up a prayer that 
they might be given back to him again, and 
that no evil might have befallen them. 

They had walked about a mile along the 
road that the children had taken that morn- 
ing, when suddenly they heard a shout. It 
was Stacy. When he came up to them, and 
saw who they were, he looked intensely re- 
lieved. 

“I’ve found them, father, but I can’t get 
to them.” 

“Where are they?” 

“Stuck among some reeds in a boat, the 
other side of the river. This way!” 

He led the little party across a field to the 
river’s edge. 

There, sure enough, under a steep bank of 
blackberry bushes and brambles, was a boat, 
with two little forlorn creatures in it. 

“I’ve gone in twice,” said Stacy, “but the 
water twirls me round so, and as I’m not 
good at swimming I was nearly drowned ; 
and then I thought I better not be, so I was 
coming for help!” 

Goff threw off his coat and boots in a 
minute. There was a strong current run- 
ning. It was a wonder that the boat had 
not been swept along farther, but it had be- 
come tightly wedged in the roots of an old 
willow, and Cherry, with wonderful fore- 


190 


CHERRY 


thought, had tied her sash round one of the 
branches that overhung the water, and was 
grasping the ends of it tightly in her two 
little hands. 

It did not take Goff long to bring the boat 
ashore. The little girls were stiff with cold 
and exposure. Cherry had given Bonnie her 
jacket in addition to her own, so she was in 
the worse plight of the two. Colonel St. 
Leger took Bonnie in his arms, and carried 
her home, Mr. Watkins did the same to 
Cherry, and Goff led the way with the lan- 
terns. He and Stacy were both soaked 
through, and when they reached the farm 
Mrs. Watkins and Nettie had their hands full. 
The children were put to bed at once, and 
given hot bowls of bread and milk. Colonel 
St. Leger visited them all before he retired to 
rest, and was relieved to see that they were 
all— even Phil— sleeping quietly and peace- 
fully. 

Then he came back to his room, and said 
to Goff: 

‘‘We must return home at once, I will take 
the responsibility of the children no longer. 


XIY 


HOME AGAIN 

The children suffered very little from the 
efiects of that unfortunate day. Phil’s wrist 
healed rapidly, and he became rather proud 
of showing it to various lads about the 
farm. 

“Did it hurt? Of course it did. Just as 
much as if I had been shot in battle. There’s 
many a fellow invalided home with a 
wounded arm like mine. And I’d like to give 
a piece of my mind to the brutes who did it ; 
I believe I could get them fined or impris- 
oned for it. If only I knew the party, I 
would march up a couple of policemen to 
them, and give them in custody!” 

Cherry was the one who was laid up for a 
couple of days with a very heavy cold. Bon- 
nie did not seem much the worse. She gave 
her father a long account of herself and 
Cherry after the boys had left them. 

“We picked our baskets full, father dear, 
and then we sat down. We was so tired 
that we had to eat a good many, and we 
waited ever so long tiU we were sure it was 
supper-time, and then Cherry said we must 
get home ; so we tried to, but the fields had 


192 


CHERRY 


got mixed, and some cows ran at us, and 
tHen we found a lovely little boat by the 
river. We knew it must be your river, father 
dear, so we thinked if we got in and poked 
the big stick through the water, it would 
bring us home; but Cherry couldn’t hold it 
proper, and it knocked her on the chin, and 
tumbled in the water, but the boat went 
just as fast without it. And we should have 
come home bu’fully, father dear, if that hor- 
rid old tree hadn’t stopped us. We was 
going dreadfully fast, only when the tree 
catched us we bobbed about and turned 
round and round, and so Cherry tied her 
sash on, and kept us steady ; and then it did 
get fearfully dark, and we called, and called. 
And then we called dear God to take care of 
us. He never goes far away, does He? And 
then it got cold, and we kept pretending we 
was peoples in the Bible, Cherry made it up 
lovely. First we was Noah in his Ark, and 
then we was Moses in his basket, and then 
we was the disciples when Jesus wasn’t with 
them. But it got worse and worse, and then 
we both cried, and then we shouted and 
screamed, and then Stacy screamed back. 
We was so pleased, and then, father dear, 
you carried me all the way home, and I loves 
you!” 

Colonel St. Leger found he could not go 
home so easily as he imagined ; for the house 


HOME AGAIN 


193 

was stiU in the hands of the painteis and 
whitewashers. Mr. Hastings had only had 
a very slight attack, and had just been 
moved to the seaside, where he was going to 
stay for three weeks before he returned to 
his little charges. 

The Colonel chafed a good deal under these 
arrangements, but the children were on their 
best behavior again; and he found that by 
taking Stacy out fishing with him one ad- 
venturous spirit was kept quiet, and the 
others were happy enough in the vicinity of 
the farm. 

It was in this way that father and son 
drew closer together. Stacy’s tone in speak- 
ing of his father changed ; it was more re- 
spectful. He began to discover that the 
Colonel was not so indifferent to his sons 
as he seemed ; that he had ideas about their 
future prospects which were rather interest- 
ing. 

“In fact,” Stacy exclaimed at one school- 
room tea, “I think it is a jolly thing to have 
a father, and I’m jolly glad he took us away 
from Dr. Burton. You see, a doctor isn’t 
much good to any one unless they’re sick, 
and we shall never be that again, I hope. 
He can’t know the world like father does, 
or have as much sense about boys and men 
as father has— *1 think we’ve done very well 
for ourselves.” 

13 


CHERRY 


194 

“We haven’t done anything,” said Cherry. 
“Father has done it all.” 

Shortly after this Cherry was reading the 
fifteenth chapter of St. John’s gospel at pray- 
ers. 

And after they were over she stole up to 
her bedroom and got out her own little 
Bible. 

Her eyes were shining with excitement. 
She had found a chapter after her own heart. 
True, it was grapes and not cherries that 
were mentioned; but fruit-bearing was the 
subject, and Cherry repeated over and over 
to herself the verse: ^ 

“He that abideth in me, an».I in him, the 
same bringeth forth much fruit, for without 
me ye can do nothing.” 

She turned this over and over in her mind 
and longed to talk to some one about it. 
At last she thought of writing to Miss Ar- 
nold, and after spending a whole afternoon 
over it, this production was sent: 

“MY DEAR MISS ARNOLD: I have read a verse to- 
day. Please will you write and tell me about it. It 
is St. John, chapter xv., and the verse is the fifth. It 
is all about fruit, and this verse says, ‘bringeth forth 
much fruit.’ What does it mean? ‘Abide in me.’ It 
seems to tell the way to bear fruit, but I cannot un- 
derstand it. Please write and tell me — I want to 
bear much fruit. I am trying hard when I don’t for- 
get. And is darning the boys’ stockings instead of go- 


HOME AGAIN 


195 

ing out to play a kind of fruit? I should like to see 
you again. Your loving 

‘‘CHERRY.” 

She received an answer soon, and to her 
delight it was written so clearly that she 
could decipher it herself. 

“MY DEAR LITTLE FRIEND: Don’t make me into 
a parson. I cannot expound your verse, but my old 
governess is a little saint, and when I can pluck up 
courage, I will ask her about it. It sounds rather awe- 
inspiring. Good words are comparatively easy; this 
would not be. Perhaps I shall discover that I am still 
a cumberer and shall be tiU the end of the chapter, in 
spite of all my efforts in the contrary direction! You 
will not understand a word of this. But we will have 
a good talk together when you come home. I am go- 
ing to bring my old governess back with me, and give 
her a good time. Good-by. 

“Your loving friend, 

“BLANCHE ARNOLD.” 

Cherry puzzled over this. She did not con- 
sider it at all satisfactory, and ventured to 
ask her father very shyly one day: 

“Father, what does ‘abide’ mean?” 

“To stay, or live,” replied the Colonel. 

“Can you live in a person?” 

“Hardly — in a house, you mean. An abode 

is a dwelling-place.” 

Cherry sighed, and asked no more ques- 
tions. She studied her verse very often. 
And the last part of it she understood. She 


196 CHERRY 

added a clause in her morning and evening 
prayers. 

“And oh, God, the Bible says I can’t do 
nothing without Jesus to help me. Do please 
let Him help me to bear fruit — much fruit, 
like the Bible says. Show me how to do it, 
for Jesus Christ’s sake. Amen!” 

One afternoon the Colonel was sitting in 
his orchard smoking his pipe. Bonnie was 
busy raking some fallen apples together. 
Cherry was lying full length on the grass, 
deep in an old-fashioned story book that 
Mrs. Watkins had given her. 

The boys were out in the farmyard with 
Mr. Watkins; their shrill voices made them- 
selves heard occasionally. Colonel St. Leger 
was feeling very comfortable. He was med- 
itating in a lazy fashion over his sojourn 
at the farm and congratulating himself upon 
his improved health and spirits. Suddenly 
the sound of wheels startled him, and looking 
up, he saw a carriage drive up to the farm. 

Bonnie saw it, too, and at once was in- 
terested. 

“A fat lady is getting out,” she announced. 
“Do you think it is somebody come to see 
us, father dear?” 

“Let us hope not,” muttered the Colonel. 

It was a vain hope. A few minutes later 
a rustling dress and a well-known voice 
sounded in his ear. 


HOME AGAIN 


197 

“My dear Eustace, what an out-of-the-way 
place to stay in! I thought I should never 
discover you.” 

It was Mrs. Crawford. The Colonel rose 
and gave her his seat’. 

“It was a pity you did not let me know 
you were in this neighborhood,” he said 
quietly; “then I might have directed you 
rightly.” 

“I am staying with Lady Summers, about 
seven miles off. You remember her, do you 
not? She would be charmed to renew her 
acquaintance with you. She has kindly lent 
me her carriage, or I could not have come 
so far. Well, how are you, Eustace, and 
when are you going home?” 

“As soon as the painters wiU allow us,” 
said the Colonel shortly. Mrs. Crawford’s 
gaze fell on the two little girls. 

“Poor little motherless creatures!” she 
said. “They are growing so fast! You will 
need some woman’s influence over them.” 

The Colonel frowned. His cousin laid her 
hand affectionately on his arm. 

“Now, my dear Eustace, be advised by 
me ; do not shut yourself away from society 
any longer. I have you so upon my mind 
that I cannot rest at night sometimes for 
thinking of you. It is not natural or right 
for a man in your circumstances to be alone. 
I am sure your dear wife would be the first 


CHERRY 


198 

one to say that it is necessary for your chil- 
dren’s welfare that you should marry again. 
Now don’t be angry with me; I have just 
thought of the very person to suit you, and 
I could not rest till I had come over and 
told you. What do you say to Blanche Ar- 
nold? I hear she has taken a violent fancy 
to the little girls. You knew her when she 
was a child ; she has a nice income of her 
own, and lately has developed several ad- 
mirable qualities. She would make a cap- 
ital mother to your children.” 

“Cherry,” said the Colonel very quietly, 
“come here.” 

Cherry had been standing under an apple- 
tree with Bonnie, listening to this conversa- 
tion with great bewilderment. 

“Tell your Cousin Anna what I told you 
a short while ago. She may understand it 
from your lips, for she certainly does not 
from mine. Tell her who is going to take 
your dear mother’s place, and assure her 
that our plans for the future are already 
made.” 

Cherry rested her little hand on her father’s 
knee and looked up at Mrs. Crawford rather 
shyly. 

“Father says that I am to be like mother, 
and do what she did. And” — with a little 
flush of enthusiasm which swallowed up her 
shyness— “I mean to. I am beginning as fast 


HOME AGAIN 


199 

as I can, and I shall look after the bojs and 
Bonnie, and take care of the house and sit 
at the other end of the table, as I do here 
when father has his lunch with us. I shall 
try and grow up exactly like mother.” 

“And tell your cousin we mean to have 
no other mistress over us,” put in the Colo- 
nel in his dry tone. 

“Really, Eustace,” said Mrs. Crawford im- 
patiently, “I shall begin to think you have a 
screw loose, if you talk to your children like 
this! I never heard such nonsense! you are 
stuffing that child’s head with unwholesome 
notions. She is too small to think of re- 
sponsibility in any shape or form. How is 
your tutor? When is he coming back to his 
duty again?” 

The dangerous topic was dropped. Mrs. 
Crawford did not allude to it again, but the 
Colonel drew a breath of relief when her visit 
was over. 

“What did cousin Anna mean about Miss 
Arnold?” Cherry asked her father with curi- 
osity in her tone. 

“We won’t think of it,” he replied. 

“But,” said Bonnie breathlessly, “cousin 
Anna said she would make herself a mother 
to us. How could she? She wasn’t horned 
our mother!” 

Bonnie’s ideas of relationship were always 
pectdiar. Her father smiled. 


200 


CHERRY 


‘‘No, she is a nice friend to my little girls ; 
but she will never be anything else.” 

And then the boys came up, and demanded 
the girls’ service at a game of cricket. 

At last the day came for their return home. 

The children were both glad and sorry to 
go; the weather was becoming unsettled, 
and rain at the farm was not enjoyable. 
The boys felt most of all the parting with 
Sawdust. They hung round his neck and 
smothered him with caresses. 

“I wish you would give him to us, Mr. 
Watkins,” said Stacy; “we’re teaching him 
wonderful tricks, and he will forget them all 
when we go.” 

“Ye had better bide a bit longer then,” 
suggested the farmer. 

But they shook their heads. 

“We want to see how our rabbits and 
guinea-pigs are getting on, and whether 
A,B,C is keeping the apples for us as he 
promised; and old Hastings will be coming 
back, and he isn’t half a bad fellow, you 
know !” 

They were welcomed back with great de- 
light by Mr. Tipkins. 

“The house have been like death, and the 
workmen so aggravatin’ that it is high time 
they should see the Colonel’s face. How 
well you look. Master Stacy — quite grown! 
And master Phil with such a color I And as 


HOME AGAIN 


aoi 


to you, Miss Bonnie, I never thought as how 
you could throw off your illness so quick! 
Miss Cherry and me quite thought you was 
marked for death.” 

Abercrombie shook his head at them as 
they danced round him. 

“We’ve had rare quiet sin’ ye left us. A 
verra peaceful time; an’ though I’U not say 
I be grieved to bid ye welcome home, the 
wee flowers an’ the plants are the better for 
bein’ unplucked an’ ne’er trodden doon!” 

“Now, A,B,C, where are the apples?” 

“And aren’t the grapes ripe yet? You’re a 
pretty gardener!” 

“And have you watered my little tree, 
please?” 

“Where is my dear darling, little red dai- 
sies? They’ve all gone! Oh, A,B,C, you 
cutted them oflf!” 

Bonnie’s wail was the only one that pro- 
voked a reply. 

“’Deed naethin’ o’ the sort. Missy! The 
wee daisies be gone the way o’ most men. 
They’ve lived their lives an’ dee’d in their 
ain guid time!” 

“But they needn’t have died,” argued Bon- 
nie with tearful eyes, “you might have made 
them live till I came home!” 

“Life an’ death be in the ban’s o’ the 
Almighty,” said Abercrombie gravely. 

“Dear God planted them all Himself,” went 


202 


CHERRY 


on Bonnie. “You said He did; I’m sure He’d 
like them to stay alive.” 

It was a special patch of grass round an 
old elm which was Bonnie’s great delight. 
Abercrombie left the grass uncut to please 
her. She called it “Dear God’s Httle garden.” 

Cherry tried to explain to her that the 
daisies were not really dead ; that they would 
come up the following spring ; and with this 
comfort Bonnie dried her tears. A few days 
later Mr. Hastings arrived. He looked 
rather gaunt and pale after his recent illness. 
The Colonel shook hands warmly with him, 
and called him into his room. 

“I am really, deeply grateful to you for the 
way you nursed my boys,” he said. “I am 
not sorry to hand them over to your charge 
again. Their continual flow of spirits is 
rather fatiguing; but I am stronger than I 
was, and don’t want to shirk every bit of 
responsibility. I shall be glad to have a chat 
with you about them from time to time. 
And ” 

The Colonel paused, then added rather 
awkwardly : 

“The children have come into my room — 
since we have been away, you know — for 
morning prayers — and I should like them to 
continue it.” 

Mr. Hastings was surprised, but took care 
not to show it. 


HOME AGAIN 


203 


“Certainly. They shall do so still, sir.” 

So Cherry still read morning prayers, and 
her father would sit listening to her soft, 
childish voice, shading his eyes with his 
hand. He loved to catch the resemblance 
in her tones to those of her mother, and 
would often bring a pleased flush to her 
cheeks by sa3ring: 

“You are getting very like your mother, 
little woman.” 

The vicarage children, of course, were de- 
lighted to welcome them back, and Cherry 
beheld with delight some pinafores that she 
had helped to hem, on the baby and the little 
girl. She asked Ruth if she had seen Miss 
Arnold. 

“She’s just come home, and she brought 
mother some lovely grapes, and some Httle 
brown birds for father. Don’t you like her. 
Cherry? Faith and I think her the goodest 
person in the world! She is so kind.” 

“Of course I like her,” said Cherry, a little 
grandly, “because she is my friend; I knew 
her before you did.” 

“Ruth was inclined to argue this out, but 
Cherry quenched her. 

“I don’t mind her coming to see you and 
Ruth, but she’s my friend, and I haven’t got 
another in the whole world. She’s my only 
one.” 


XY 


HOW TO HAVE FRUIT 

“Well, Cherry, how has the world been 
treating you?” 

Miss Arnold had arrived in her pony car- 
riage, and had carried off Cherry for a drive. 

Cherry looked up with a bright smile. 

“You do say funny things. Miss Arnold.” 

“Do I? Well, I am going to be serious. I 
have brought you out because I want to 
have a long talk with you. I have been 
learning lessons since I saw you last.” 

“Have you been going to school?” asked 
Cherry, with a puzzled face. 

“No, I have been learning them by the side 
of a sick-bed.” 

“Real lessons out of books like we do?” 

“Lessons, out of one book. I hope they 
are real. I mean them to be.” 

Cherry did not speak. Grown-up people 
troubled her very much, sometimes Miss 
Arnold especially. There was a soft tone in 
her voice now, and her face seemed much 
brighter than it used to be. 

“Do you remember the verse you sent m.e, 
little woman?” 


HOW TO HAVE FRUIT 205 

‘^Oh, yes.” 

thought that was the last stage of fruit 
bearing. Good works — ‘doing good,’ as you 
call it — was the first stage. Then the fruits 
of the Spirit — ‘being good’ shall we call it?— 
was the second stage. And this last verse 
of yours was the final stage, but I found I 
was altogether wrong. It is the first stage, 
and the most important one ; the others fol- 
low naturally. Do you understand me?” 

“I don’t think I do,” said Cherry humbly. 

Miss Arnold gave a little sigh. 

“I really am not cut out for children,” she 
said. “I can’t be simple enough, and yet I 
want to be. Cherry, so much! I want to 
help you little ones, as I have been helped 
myself. Now listen! You and I have been 
cumberers, at least I have, all my life, and 
we want to turn over a new leaf, and bear 
fruit, don’t we?” 

“Yes,” assented Cherry earnestly. 

“The first thing we have got to do is to 
go straight to our Master who has been 
watching over us so patiently and sorrow- 
fully, and tell Him we want to be dififerent.” 

“I’ve told God that every day,” said 
Cherry, with a little solemn nod. 

“Then we have to open our heart’s door 
and let our Saviour come in and abide with 
us. He wants to live with us every day. 
Cherry. Inside us, so that He can take care 


2o6 


CHERRY 


of our hearts, and keep them clean, and make 
us good. We have to let Him in, and He 
will do the rest. And then He will help us 
to bear fruit. The fruit comes from Him.” 

Miss Arnold’s face softened and glowed as 
she spoke. Cherry looked at her wonder- 
ingly. 

“Mr. Hastings said we must be good be- 
fore we can do good,” she said thoughtfully. 

“Mr. Hastings was right; but you see we 
can’t be good or do good, unless our Master 
is inside us making us good.” 

Cherry pondered over this. 

“And now,” said Miss Arnold, with a sud- 
den change of tone, “that is my little ser- 
mon, Cherry. The lesson I am trying to 
learn. Now tell me all you have been doing 
since you have been away.” 

Cherry’s tongue went very fast. She was 
surprised when the drive came to an end, 
and they arrived at Miss Arnold’s house. 

She took her straight to her pretty morn- 
ing room, where, on a couch in the window, 
lay one of the sweetest-looking old ladies 
that Cherry had ever seen. She was very 
small and thin, and wore a gray wrapper 
with a white shawl round her shoulders. A 
close white cap was on her head, but her 
blue eyes and her happy smile fascinated 
Cherry. 

“This is my little teacher,” said Miss 


HOW TO HAVE FRUIT 207 

Arnold, laying her head on Cherry’s shoul- 
der. 

‘'A very small one,” said the old lady 
brightly. 

“But I couldn’t be a teacher,” said Cherry, 
perplexed. 

Miss Arnold laughed. 

“She is my little fellow-cumberer then, Miss 
Mordaunt. I am going to see if luncheon is 
ready, so I will leave you two together.” 

“I have heard all about you,” said Miss 
Mordaunt, holding out her hand to Cherry 
and drawing her near to her; “and I have 
wanted very much to see you. You are a 
little cherry tree, and you want to be sure 
that your cherries are good.” 

“Yes,” said Cherry shyly. “A clergyman 
told me that once, and I’ve never forgot 
it.” 

“Will you tell me about your brothers and 
sisters?” 

“Stacy and Phil are the boys,” said Cherry 
readily; “they’re always together; and Bon- 
nie and me — Bonnie is Httle, and funny, and 
good. I wish you could see her. Everybody 
Hkes her— she is so soft and fat.” 

“She sounds delightful,” said Miss Mor- 
daunt smiling. “And what about the boys?” 

“Oh, Phil is very clever; he is always mak- 
ing things ; and Stacy is big and strong and 
tells you to do things, and you have to, you 


2o8 cherry 

know. And would you like to hear about 
father?” 

Cherry was so fast losing her shyness, 
Miss Mordaunt assented, and she spoke in 
eager enthusiasm. 

“We never knew him till last spring, when 
he came home from India. I was frightened 
of him, but Bonnie wasn’t. And he was so 
quiet and grave ; but he has lovely eyes, and 
he smiles right inside you. And now we all 
love him. He is ill, and he likes to be quiet, 
and he doesn’t tell funny stories Hke Dr. 
Burton used to, but he talks to us just as if 
we were grown-up people, and that’s deli- 
cious! And I am going to grow up and 
make him comfortable, and stay with him 
for ever and ever. And Goff tell us stories 
about father, how brave he was in India 
when he had to fight, and Goff says there’s 
no one living that comes up to him — no 
one 1” 

Cherry paused for breath, but soon con- 
tinued in the same strain; and when Miss 
Arnold came back, she found the two were 
the greatest friends. 

When Cherry returned home that day she 
thought over Miss Arnold’s words. She got 
her Bible out, and pondered over the verse 
again; then wondered if Bonnie, who seemed 
so wise sometimes in unseen things, could 
help her. 


HOW TO HAVE FRUIT 209 

“Bonnie, come Fere, I want to talk to 
you.” 

Bonnie Fad been quietly dipping DinaF’s 
cotton feet into tFe scFoolroom ink-well. 
SFe came across at once to CFerry, wFo was 
sitting by tFe window, carrying DinaF in Fer 
arms, wFile DinaF’s feet dripped over Fer 
wFite pinafore as sFe walked. 

“OF, Bonnie, wFat Fave you been doing? 
Look at your fingers! And your pinafore!” 

“It’s blacking,” said Bonnie complacently. 
“Dinah has lost Fer shoes, so I’ve maded Fer 
black feet!” 

“But Nettie will be so angry.” 

“She’ll send my pinny to be washed.” 

Nothing could disturb Bonnie. SFe was 
in one of her most complacent moods. 

SFe sat down now, and put on one of her 
most angelic looks. 

“Bonnie, do you know how we can be 
really good?” 

“How?” 

“Well, we have to open our hearts to 
Jesus, and then He comes in and makes us 
good.” 

Bonnie was silent, then she looked up and 
smiled. 

“Is Jesus in your heart. Cherry?” 

“I don’t know, I want Him to be.” 

“He will be if you ask Him, won’t He?” 

Cherry’s face grew bright. She had been 
14 


210 


CHERRY 


puzzling her head as to how she was to 
open her heart, and what it meant. Bon- 
nie had solved the difficulty in a minute. 

It was only to ask Him, and He would 
come in. 

But she did not do it then. She waited 
till bed-time, and then after her evening 
prayer she remained on her knees with her 
eyes tight shut and her lips moving. 

Bonnie watched her from her bed curi- 
ously. 

“Was you telling dear God a secret?’^ she 
asked as Cherry clambered into her bed, and 
Nettie, taking the candle in her hand, went 
away. 

“I was asking — what I wanted,” Cherry 
replied. She would tell Bonnie nothing more. 

Autumn came and passed and the winter 
drew near. The children were consequently 
more confined to the house. Mr. Hastings 
kept them well employed, but now and then 
Colonel St. Leger would send Goff up-stairs 
with a message that he must have more 
quiet. It was hard work to curb their 
spirits sometimes, and Bonnie more than 
once crept into her father’s room, with the 
audacious request: 

“Please, dear father, could you put some 
cotton in your ears, and let us have one little 
romp for five minutes?” 

In November the boys were delighted to 


HOW TO HAVE FRUIT 21 1 


have Angus Allan for a schoolfellow. It 
was an arrangement partly made or sug- 
gested by Miss Arnold. 

He was a quicker scholar, and seemed to 
enjoy his books, which was far from the case 
with Stacy and Phil. 

^‘You see,” he said one wet half-holiday, 
as he was helping the others to make taffy 
over the schoolroom fire, “I want to go to 
Oxford when I grow up. That is where 
father went, and if I can get a scholarship 
I may be able to manage it!” 

“What win you do after that?” said Stacy, 
as he turned from his occupation of watching 
the taffy on the fire, and looked at Angus 
rather curiously. 

“I shall be a clergyman then, and I shall 
have Grace to come and keep house for me. 
She knows how to make a fellow comfort- 
able!” 

“You mustn’t take Grace away,” said 
Cherry hastily, “because what would every- 
body else do without her?” 

“I don’t think I should like Cherry to keep 
house for me,” said Stacy. “She’s getting 
rather priggish ; why, she actually wouldn’t 
help us when we were hiding A,B,C’s wheel- 
barrow yesterday — she said it wouldn’t be 
kind! I hate kind people!” 

“All right. Cherry, the next time he wants 
a button sewed on, or bags for his marbles 


212 CHERRY 

made, mind you don’t do it. Don’t be kind 
to him!” 

Angus nodded good-naturedly to Cherry, 
who was looking rather distressed at her 
brother’s words. 

“I don’t want to be a prig,” she said. 

“What’s a prig?” demanded Bonnie, with 
her mouth full of some of the sticky com- 
pound they were making. 

“It’s a person that sets themselves up to 
be better than their neighbors. A creature 
that is too good to live!” said Phil. 

Bonnie tried to understand. 

“We ought to be worse than our neigh- 
bors, I s’pose. How good mustn’t you 
be? I thought dear God wants us to be 
good.” 

“Oh, shut up, Bonnie! You’re too stupid 
for words!” 

“I shouldn’t like to be a clergyman,” said 
Phil thoughtfully, “for they have such a dull 
time of it; and they always stick in a little 
village and sit half the day making up ser- 
mons. It’s all very well for old men. I 
mean to go abroad and travel where no one 
has ever been before, and see all kinds of 
wonderful, horrible things!” 

“But,” argued Angus, “all clergymen don’t 
stick in villages. I shall go up to London. 
It’s the grandest profession out.” ' Here he 
threw his head back with enthusiasm. “It’s 


HOW TO HAVE FRUIT 213 

tr3dng to get at the best part of people, and 
leading them to think of the best, and live 
for the best! And not a day of your life is 
wasted!’’ 

“A soldier’s life for me!” said Stacy. 
“That’s a grand life if you like, just living 
and dying for others ! A clergyman couldn’t 
have as grand a death as a soldier unless 
he was burnt for his religion, like some chaps 
were!” 

“Oh, I wish, I wish!” said Cherry, with 
glowing cheeks, “that girls could be some- 
thing! I think I should like to be a clergy- 
man!” 

The boys laughed. Stacy said with his 
grand air: 

“If you stop at home and mend men’s 
clothes, and do what they want you to, 
that’s good enough for any girl!” 

“You might be a clergyman’s wife,” said 
Angus. “P’raps I’ll ask you to be mine— 
but I think I’d rather have Grace.” 

“I’m never going to be a wife,” said Cherry 
warmly; “I’m always going to stay with 
father. I forgot him; I shall take care of 
him always.” 

“And what are you going to do, Bonnie?” 
asked Angus. 

Bonnie considered with a sticky finger in 
her mouth. 

“I think I shall be a woman in a candy 


CHERRY 


214 

store,’’ she said, “or a gardener’s boy. 
P’raps that would be best.” 

“You won’t grow up into a boy, you 
goose.” 

“I shall be like Miss Arnold,” said Bonnie 
with a sudden inspiration, “and I shall ask 
children to come and play in my garden 
every day, and my garden shall be all daisies 
and buttercups and trees, they shan’t be 
gardener’s flowers at all. They shall be all 
dear God’s!” 

“As if a gardener makes any flowers !” said 
Phil. 

“A,B,C does; he puts them in the ground 
and they come up.” 

“Miss Arnold is awfully jolly,” said Angus. 
“I wish all grown-up people were Hke her. 
She gave me a football the other day.” 

“Oh, Angus!” exclaimed the boys, “you 
never told us!” 

“Well, I’ve — I’ve lost it. I kicked it over 
into old Jones’s garden, and he’s such a 
mean old fellow he won’t give it to me, and 
says he hasn’t seen it.” 

Stacy and Phil were greatly interested. 
They finally left the taffy-making, and went 
off in a body to the old man’s place, to en- 
treat him to restore the lost property. 

Cherry began to tidy the room, and Bon- 
nie watched her. 

“Cherry, Miss Arnold gives Ruth and Faith 


HOW TO HAVE FRUIT 215 

and Bessie and all of them such a nice lot 
of things. She never gives you and me any- 
thing; why doesn^t she?” 

“Because we don’t want them so badly,” 
said Cherry. “They’re very poor, Bonnie, 
and their father and mother never buys them 
anything at all.” 

“But father doesn’t buy us things,” said 
Bonnie. 

Cherry made no answer. 

Bonnie presently trotted down to her fa- 
ther’s room and tried to give him the sum 
and substance of the conversation in the 
schoolroom. She concluded with: 

“And wouldn’t you like, dear father, to 
give us a present one day?” 

“I might,” said the Colonel quietly. 

Bonnie clapped her hands. 

“When will you give us it?” 

“I think you must wait till Christmas.” 

And with this answer Bonnie had to be 
content. 


XVI 


BLOSSOMS OF HOPE 

Christmas came, and a very enjoyable time 
it was. Miss Arnold gave a children’s party 
with a large Christmas tree, and everybody 
seemed to get just the very thing they had 
been wishing for. Colonel St. Leger was 
actually persuaded to attend this fete, and 
assisted Miss Arnold to distribute the pres- 
ents off the tree. He gave his own girls and 
boys very handsome presents on Christmas 
day. 

Stacy was made the proud possessor of a 
little brown pony. Phil had a silver watch 
and chain. Cherry had a beautiful bound 
copy of the “Pilgrim’s Progress” with col- 
ored pictures and a little leather writing- 
case with silver fittings; Bonnie, a baby 
doll almost as big as herself. 

The Colonel was better in health, and 
seemed to be gaining energy and interest in 
his surroundings. 

He gave Stacy his first riding lesson, and 
not only allowed the vicarage children to 
come to tea one evening, but invited the vicar 
and his wife to dine with him the same 
night. Then Mrs. Crawford heard of it, and 


BLOSSOMS OF HOPE 217 

swept down upon him, and Colonel St. Leger 
at last gratified her by going to dine with 
her. 

The Christmas holidays passed very pleas- 
antly, and lessons soon began again in ear- 
nest. Then came a great event in Cherry’s 
life. Miss Arnold invited her to go up to 
London with her for a week, and after a 
consultation between Mr. Hastings and the 
Colonel, Cherry was allowed to go. 

It was the week before Easter. The boys 
were rather envious. 

“Why does she always choose you? Why 
couldn’t she ask us?” 

“We’re going to shop,” said Cherry impor- 
tantly; “boys don’t know how to do 
that.” 

“Oh, don’t we?” cried Phil. “Give me the 
money, and you’ll see how fast I can shop! 
I hear there is a whole street in London full 
of mice and guinea-pigs and rabbits and 
monkeys and parrots and every sort of bird. 
That’s where I should go!” 

“And you can get ices all the year round 
in London,” put in Stacy; “and there’s an 
arcade kind of place where you can get all 
you want awfully cheap — Angus know-s it. 
You get knives and pocket pistols and fish- 
ing-rods for next to nothing; don’t you, 
Angus?” 

Angus nodded. 


21 8 CHERRY 

“And the books ! You should see the book 
stores.’^ 

“Oh, we shan’t go to any of those places !” 
said Cherry. “We are going to get pretty 
stuff for pinafores and frocks and petticoats.’’ 

“Call that shopping ! ’ ’ And the boys turned 
away in disgust. 

When Cherry’s small trunk was packed, 
and Miss Arnold’s carriage was outside, 
waiting to take her to the station, she went 
the round of the house, sa3ring good-by 
with such impressiveness and solemnity that 
Mrs. Tipkins told her she might be going 
for a year instead of a week. 

“We shall only have time to turn ourselves 
round, and you will be back again. Miss 
Cherry.” 

“But a week is a long time,” said Cherry, 
“and London is very, very far away.” 

Bonnie flung her arms round her neck and 
nearly choked her. 

“I does hope you won’t get killed in Lon- 
don, or lost. Father and me thinks it will 
be dreadful till you come back. But I prom- 
ise truly to be like one of the best little an- 
gels in heaven. I’ll be very, very good, and 
I’ll let Nettie tug my hair when she gets out 
the knots, and I won’t give one little scream. 
And oh. Cherry, father and me thinks it 
would be wunnerful if you sent us a letter 
by the post with my name on it!” 


BLOSSOMS OF HOPE 219 

The boys gave her a hug too. They had 
not yet grown ashamed of showing any af- 
fection for their sisters. 

“And Cherry,” said Phil suggestively, “peo- 
ple always bring presents from London. If 
you should have any tin that Miss Arnold 
may give you, and don’t know what to do 
with it, and you see a handy tool-box any- 
where, it’s just what I’m wanting, and I’ll 
let you go halves in it!” 

“Do you think she’d have enough for a 
tool-box?” said Stacy scornfully. “But I tell 
you what. Cherry! Keep your eyes on the 
Penny Men in the streets — Angus says there 
are awfully funny things they sell — and bring 
us back a few as specimens if you can.” 

Mr. Hastings slipped two shillings into 
her hand. “Spend it on yourself, and not 
on the boys,” he said, smiling, “and keep 
your eyes and ears open, and come back and 
tell us all you have seen and heard.” 

“You ought to tell her to improve her 
mind,” said Stacy saucily, “and come back 
stored with London wisdom and knowl- 
edge.” 

Cherry’s good-by to her father was left 
till the last. 

He stooped and kissed her gravely. 

“We shall miss you, little woman,” he said, 
“especially at prayers in the morning, but I 
am glad you are going to have such a treat. 


220 CHERRY 

You are getting to be nearly as useful to 
me as Goff is.” 

That was the highest praise he could offer 
her; and when he slipped a gold sovereign 
into her hand and told her to spend it as 
she liked, Cherry took it with an awe-struck 
face and drove away with mingled feelings 
of excitement, nervousness, and delight. She 
was very silent during the journey, and her 
little soul was filled with awe when she ar- 
rived in London and saw the crowds and 
stores. Miss Arnold was sta3dng with an 
old cousin of hers in a quiet London square ; 
but she was out all day in a hired brougham, 
taking Cherry from shop to shop and spend- 
ing her money fast and freely. 

“I have such a lot of Easter presents to 
get. Cherry, and you must help me choose 
some for the vicarage children. I have only 
just begun to find out why my money was 
given to me, and I am thoroughly enjoying 
the spending of it.” 

^‘Why was it given to you?” asked Cherry. 

“To make other people happy. I am find- 
ing out that my money does not belong to 
me at all, but to my Master, and I want to 
spend it as He would like me to.” 

“Does all money belong to God?” 

“Yes, if we belong to Him.” 

“Father gave me a gold pound,” went on 
Cherry thoughtfully. “Would God not like 


BLOSSOMS OF HOPE 


221 


me to get toys and nice things for Bonnie 
and the boys? Are clothes and warm petti- 
coats the only things you ought to get?” 

Miss Arnold laughed. 

‘^Oh, you Httle conscientious mortal! I 
must take care what I say. My dear, you 
shall spend that pound exactly as you like. 
I know it would not be on yourself. It 
wouldn’t make Stacy happy to receive a 
flannel petticoat, or Bonnie a warm great- 
coat. I have been getting things for chil- 
dren whose parents cannot afford to clothe 
them properly. Toys would not be so suit- 
able.” 

So Cherry spent her pound with much care, 
thought, and trouble, and she enjoyed her- 
self thoroughly in doing it. The week went 
too quickly, but the return home was even 
more delightful than the going away from it. 
She had brought something for every one, 
and the Colonel told her laughingly that he 
never imagined a pound could go so far. 
Her little tongue hardly seemed able to stop, 
she had so much to say; and though the 
boys laughed at her sometimes, they listened 
to her accounts of herself in London with 
considerable interest. 

It was the day after her return that she 
and Bonnie paid a visit to “mother’s garden.” 
The grass was fresh and green; some prim- 
roses and daffodils were already brightening 


222 


CHERRY 


the edge of the shrubbery round it, and the 
sun streamed across, falling on the four little 
trees in a row and kissing lovingly the little 
green buds that were sprouting from their 
stems. 

“Oh, Bonnie, if only my tree would have 
cherries this year!” 

Cherry sighed as she spoke. Bonnie looked 
sober. 

“WeVe asked dear God lots of times to 
send it cherries. I hope He won’t forget. 
Let’s ask Him again, just to remember Him.” 

So the two little figures knelt down, and 
Abercrombie came upon them suddenly and 
stole softly away again, muttering to him- 
self: 

“Bless the wee lassies! They ken mair 
than wiser folks, when they take their con- 
sarns to the Almighty.” 

He came mysteriously to Cherry a few 
days afterward and asked her to come with 
him to visit her tree again. 

“I’ll no be wantin’ to raise yer expecta- 
tions unduly,” he said, “but ’tis the first 
season I have seen the wee blossoms appear- 
in’, an’ I thocht I would acquaint ye wi’ the 
fac’!” 

Cherry rushed breathlessly forward to see 
the wonderful sight. She turned with a ra- 
diant face to the old man: 

“Oh, A,B,C, do tell me; does it mean it 


BLOSSOMS OF HOPE 


223 

is going to have cherries at last? Is it really 
true? Are these the beginning of cherries?” 

Abercrombie drew his shaggy brows to- 
gether and pursed up his lips. 

“Well, missie, ’tis customly for fruit to 
follow blossom. There be aye mony pitfalls, 
to be sure ! The birds may peck an’ the frost 
may bite, but this probabeelity be for cher- 
ries by an’ by. An’ I’m thinkin’ it will be 
the sun that hath accompleeshed the matter. 
For sin’ I cut the twa thick branches awa’, 
the sun ha’ just streamed an’ streamed, an’ 
the wee tree seems to ken it an’ like it weel !” 

Cherry fled to tell Bonnie the joyful news, 
and Bonnie insisted upon repeating it to her 
father. 

“Father dear, just think! Cherry’s cumber 
tree is beginning to have little cherries; do 
come and see it.” 

The Colonel was disinclined to move, but 
Bonnie’s soft little hands got hold of his, 
and in her grasp the strong man was like 
wax. He followed her to the spot, and stood 
for the first time looking at his wife’s handi- 
work. 

Cherry was there, kneeling down by her 
tree with loving solicitude. 

“Look, father, see!” she cried in a trem- 
bling voice. “It is really true, I do believe 
it is going to have cherries at last.” 

“Of course it is,” asserted Bonnie; “we’ve 


224 


CHERRY 


prayed and prayed to dear God. And He 
has done it at last.” 

The Colonel tried to look interested, but he 
was at a loss to understand the two chil- 
dren’s excitement. 

“Very nice indeed,” he said, “but you will 
have to wait a little longer before you see 
cherries on it.” 

“It’s been a cumber tree, father, don’t you 
remember!” exclaimed Bonnie, “and Cherry 
was the only one that had a cumber tree. 
Stacy’s and Phil’s and my little tree weren’t 
cumber trees, they got fruit on them. Cher- 
ry’s tree was like the one in the Bible. You 
know I The one you read to me about. 
And Cherry said it would have to be cut 
down if it hadn’t cherries, because it was a 
cumber. And it made us so sorry, and we 
prayed to God ever so many times about it, 
and now it isn’t going to be a cumber tree 
any more, isn’t it wunnerful!” 

Bonnie poured this out rapidly. The Colo- 
nel looked at Cherry’s flushed cheeks and 
bright eyes, and then at the little tree. The 
ways of children still puzzled him, but he 
was beginning to understand them better. 

“You didn’t like your little tree being a 
failure?” he said, putting his hand on Cher- 
ry’s shoulder. 

She looked up at him, and happy tears 
crowded into her eyes. 


BLOSSOMS OF HOPE 


225 

“Mother put it in the ground, father, when 
I was a baby, so it is a kind of part of me. 
That’s what I think. And I have wanted 
to be a proper fruit tree, and it seemed no 
good, for A,B,C said it would never do any 
better, and I thought it was just like me. 
And I’ve been trying so hard, and then Miss 
Arnold and me tried together.” 

Cherry paused. This was a little bit of her 
life that was difficult to talk about. Bonnie 
had run off to call the boys to see the sight, 
but the Colonel did not go away. He sat 
down on “mother’s” seat, and drew his little 
daughter to him. 

“Well — tell me all about it — I want to un- 
derstand.” 

Cherry leaned her head against her father’s 
shoulder, and fingered his watch-chain ner- 
vously. 

“Miss Arnold and me tried not to be cum- 
berers. At least she showed me how not to 
be, but I couldn’t be sure I was getting any 
fruit ; and then I found out two more verses 
in the Bible that told me about it, and Miss 
Arnold explained them.” 

“What were the verses?” asked her father. 

“I told you one of them, father, when Miss 
Arnold wrote to me, don’t you remember?” 
‘The fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, 
longsuffering, gentleness, goodness, faith, 
meekness, temperance.’ I tried hard to do all 


226 


CHERRY 


those things, but I couldn’t keep remember- 
ing them, and then I got the other text: 
^He that abideth in me and I in him, the 
same bringeth forth much fruit, for without 
me ye can do nothing!’ And Miss Arnold 
told me about that too. She said it meant 
letting Jesus come in my heart and stop 
there, and that seemed easier than the other, 
and I have asked Him to come.” 

There was a pause. 

Then Cherry went on hurriedly: ‘‘And I 
often wonder when I shall get fruit ; but now 
my tree is beginning to get some, don’t you 
think it may be that p’raps God is telling 
me I’m just beginning too? Do you think it 
possibly might be, father?” 

There was such earnest longing in her up- 
lifted eyes that the Colonel got up from his 
seat with a full heart. 

“I think you are growing up a good little 
girl,” he said, “and I am sure you need not 
think yourself a cumberer of the ground. 
Mrs. Tipkins was telling me the other day 
how useful you are making yourself in the 
house.” 

Then he went away and left her, and Bon- 
nie and the boys came racing along to see 
the wonder and make their own comments 
on it. 


XVII 


CHERRIES 

It was Cherry’s birthday, and a lovely day 
in June. When she got out of bed in the 
morning, she felt that she was indeed the 
happiest little girl in the world. First it 
was going to be a hoHday, then she was 
going to have a party. AU the vicarage 
children and, of course. Miss Arnold had 
been invited, and lastly she was going to 
gather with her own hands some ripe red 
cherries off her tree, and they were to be 
the centre dish ont he table. How those 
cherries had been counted and watched! 
Abercrombie was as proud of them as she 
had been. He had guarded them from the 
birds by fine netting and had paid them a 
morning and evening visit every day. It 
was he who had suggested that they should 
not be gathered till her birthday came round, 
and Cherry longed for the day when others 
besides herself should see and taste the fruit 
of her own little tree. 

The schoolroom table was crowded with 
presents for her, and Abercrombie had sent 
a lovely bouquet of some most-cherished 
flowers to be placed on her plate. 


22S 


CHERRY 


Stacy Had promised to let Her ride His 
pony after breakfast. THe boys were brimful 
of excitement over tHeir HoHday. Mr. Hast- 
ings went off witH the vicar for a bicycle 
ride, so he left them to their own devices, 
and the morning passed without a shadow 
to spoil the sunshine that prevailed. 

“Why,” said Phil at luncheon, in his argu- 
mentative tones, “is a birthday supposed to 
be such a good thing for a person to have? 
Cherry is such a wonderful creature to-day ; 
yet she hasn’t done an3rthing, and we’ve got 
to treat her quite different to every other day.” 

“It is a custom,” said Mr. Hastings, smil- 
ing at the gravity of Phil’s tone, “to offer 
good wishes to people once a year, and their 
birthday is the day to do this. It means 
that you are glad that they are alive and 
happy, and hope they will be so in another 
year’s time. You get your birthday, Phil, 
in due time, so don’t be envious of Cherry.” 

“But grown-up people don’t make such a 
fuss on their birthdays,” argued Phil. 

“Sometimes they do. I think we perhaps 
get to have so many birthdays that we be- 
come tired of them; and as you get older 
you will find the old friends and relations 
who know your birthday dropping away one 
by one, and soon every one is a stranger to 
you and takes no interest in you.” 

“When is your birthday?” demanded Stacy. 


CHERRIES 


2!29 


"Ah, that is best unknown.’’ 

And Mr. Hastings turned the conversation 
on other matters. 

At four o’clock Cherry and Bonnie, in their 
best white frocks, were welcoming their 
guests on the lawn. Grace headed the vicar- 
age party. She and Mr. Hastings, when 
not joining in the games that followed, 
walked about the garden together, for they 
had many interests in common. Grace was 
passionately fond of reading, and whenever 
she could snatch a few minutes away from 
her mending-basket and household cares, 
would whip a book out of her pocket and 
become completely absorbed in it. Mr. Hast- 
ings very often lent her books, and there 
was nothing Grace liked better than a talk 
with him about them. 

Miss Arnold arrived shortly before tea-time. 
Tea was spread out on a long table under 
one of the old elms on the lawn. When it 
was ready. Cherry left her games and crept 
up quietly to her friend. 

"Miss Arnold, will you come with me while 
I pick my cherries? A,B,C says I had better 
do it now.” 

"To be sure I will, with the greatest pleas- 
ure.” 

So they went down the path that led to 
the little trees. Bonnie missed them, and 
soon came rushing up. 


230 CHERRY 

let me come too ! I want to see Clier- 
ry pick them.” 

Cherry was trembling with eagerness and 
importance. It was not a very large crop, 
but as each ripe cherry dropped from her 
fingers on the plate which Abercrombie held 
respectfully forward, Miss Arnold’s eyes filled 
with sudden tears. She knew the story of 
the little tree so well. Looking at the flushed, 
sensitive little face leaning over her posses- 
sion so tenderly, she seemed to see again the 
anxious lines on the white brow, the wistful 
sadness in the eyes and voice, when Cherry 
first acquainted her with its existence. 

“I’ve got a cumberer tree of my own. It’s 
no good, and it never will be, and I feel it’s 
just like me.” 

“It isn’t a cumber tree any more!” an- 
nounced Bonnie joyfully as she danced round 
and round her sister. “Oh, I do hope there 
will be one cherry for each of us!” 

The tree was stripped at last, and then 
Cherry looked up and met Miss Arnold’s 
gaze. 

“It’s done,” she said, “and I almost feel 
sorry I have taken them off. It seems so 
cruel, doesn’t it, when they looked so pretty 
on it? Do you think my tree will miss its 
cherries, Miss Arnold?” 

“No, I think this is the proudest day of 
its life,” said Miss Arnold, smiling; “when it 


CHERRIES 


231 

bore fruit for its little mistress, and she came 
and gathered every one herself!” 

They walked back to the lawn, and as 
Cherry was placing her fruit in the centre 
of the tea-table, her father came upon the 
scene. 

‘‘This is a grand occasion,” he said, “so 
I have come out to share your honors. 
Cherry. What! Is this the fruit from your 
wonderful tree?” 

Cherry took the top cherry off the plate, 
and held it out. 

“Taste it, father. I haven’t tasted one 
yet, and I do want to know if they are 
sweet.” 

Colonel St. Leger took it, and put it into 
his mouth. 

“Excellent,” was his verdict, and Cherry’s 
last fear vanished. The other children came 
crowding to the table now, and she was 
kept busy pouring out tea and cutting her 
birthday cake. When the cherries were 
handed round, her Httle heart swelled with 
pride. The boys’ remarks did not vex her — 
she was above and beyond vexation now. 

“Better late than never!” said Stacy. 
“Fancy! Angus, this is the first year since 
Cherry was born that her cherry tree has 
got any cherries on it!” 

“Yes,” said Phil, “my tree has done very 
well, but I thought Cherry’s was dead. I 


CHERRY 


232 

don’t know how she managed to get any on 
it this year. By crying over it, I believe.” 

The day ended at last. Very tired but very 
happy, Cherry turned away from the gate 
where she had been saying good-by to the 
vicarage children, and sauntered back to the 
house. She met Miss Arnold coming out of 
the hall door. 

‘T am waiting for my carriage. Cherry. 
Are you too tired to walk down the drive 
again with me?” 

“Oh, no. Hasn’t it been a lovely day. Miss 
Arnold? And aren’t you glad about my 
cherries?” 

“Yes, little woman. I have been thinking 
a good deal about them ; and do you know, 
I have been preaching a dehcious little ser- 
mon to myself about them.” 

“Have you? Oh, do tell me.” 

“I was thinking of your old gardener. He 
told me he thought he knew the reason of 
your tree not blo^ssoming before. It was in 
too shady a spot. He had never taken much 
notice of it until you began to worry over it 
so, and then he cut away some great boughs 
that were between it and the sun. Directly 
the sun in ah its power and strength began 
to shine upon it, the tree began to thrive.” 

“Yes,” said Cherry, “that’s what A,B,C 
told me. But you see I prayed to God about 
it, and He made the cherries come.” 


CHERRIES 


“Yes, and He did it by showing Aber- 
crombie how to treat it.’’ 

Then after a slight pause Miss Arnold went 
on: “I’ve been thinking, Cherry, that plants 
and people are pretty much alike. Do you 
know why people are cumberers?” 

“No.” 

“Because the Sun of Righteousness isn’t 
shining into their hearts and making it blos- 
som. There are some great big black 
branches that are keeping the sun out, and 
they must be cut away.” 

“And who wiU cut them?” 

“Our Gardener, if we are willing that they 
should be cut.” 

Cherry was silent. The parable that was 
such a delight to Miss Arnold was a little 
above her head. Then the carriage came up, 
and Miss Arnold stooped and kissed her. 

“Good-by, darling. I mustn’t call you 
my little fellow-cumberer again. We won’t 
worry ourselves about our fruit. All we 
have to do is to see that there are no big 
branches between us and the Sun.” 


FINIS 



By AMY LE F E U V R E 


^HERRY, tKe Cumberer that 

Bore Fruit 

Illustrated, 12 mo, cloth, net $1.00. 

There is the irrepressible Stacy who is continually devising 
new schemes to get himself into scrapes. Phil, who follows pretty 
closely the lead of his older brother. Little Bonnie, who is the first 
to wind her way, by her quaint acts and sayings, into her father’s 
affections. But to Cherry, whose endeavor is not to be a “cumLerer ” 
(like her cherry tree, planted at her birth, which in spite of every 
atttenion has never borne fruit), must be conceded the first place. 
Around this the story has been cleverly woven, and from it the 
author has secured her title. Every story from her remarkable pen 
seems to be a still greater improvement over its predecessor, and 
this is certainly the very ideal of a child’s story. The realness of it, 
too, makes it more than interesting to older folks as well. 


'J'HE ODD ONE 

Profusely illustrated by Mary A. Lathbury. 
Small 4to, $1.00. 

“ The story of a little girl of six or seven summers; one of those 
delightful, innocent, entrancing little pieces of individualism that 
creep into the hearts of the world’s older children ere they are 
aware of it, and steal their secrets by the very comfortableness of 
the clear-sighted sympathy which exhales from these whose nature 
is pure truth.” — Minn. Times. 

“ It tells of the sufferings of a little child who was neglected 
by her parents and misunderstood by her nurse, while her two older 
sisters and her two younger brothers left her much alone. How 
she at last found comfort in a dog. how the dog gave his life for 
her, and how she developed through all her experience is told.” — 
Pilgrim Teacher. 


PUZZLING PAIR 

With illustrations on every page, by Eve- 
line Lance. 4to, cloth, $1.00. 

“ The adventures of two small seekers after truth, Guy, the 
artist, and his extremely practical twin sister. Beryl, who live in an 
oid manor-house by the seashore. Left almost entirely to them- 
selves, they find employments for their leisure which are quite out 
of the ordinary, and very entertaining. Their quaint sayings and 
quaint experiences are such as cannot fail to interest young readers, 
and from the first page to the last there is not one that is dull and 
unworthy of attention. The story is amply illustrated, almost 
every page having border illustrations .” — Zioii s Advocate. 


By AMT LE FEUVRE 


P ROBABLE SONS \yoth thousand. 

Illustrated, i2mo, cloth, 35 c. New illustrated 
edition. Small 4to, decorated cloth, 50c. 

“ We do not know the author of this very touching tale. It is 
equal to ‘ Fishin’ Jimmy ’ in its way, while as an illustration of the 
text, ‘A little child shall lead them,’ it is the most irresistibly pa- 
thetic tale we remember to have seen. Among the brightest, most 
charming and irresistible of child-creations in our recent literature.” 
— The Independence.^' 

“One of the brightest, sweetest, most helpful little books 
for young and old that we have seen for many a day. It is alive 
with that sort of humor that is so close to pathos that one laughs 
and cries in the same breath. It speaks to the very heart, and 
appeals strongly to all ‘ probable sons.’ in whatever station or con- 
dition, in an irresistible way; and with wirjuing simplicity and 
confidence shows the readiness of the Father to forgive and to 
receive.” — Christian Work. 


'J'E.DDY’S BUTTON 

Illustrated. Small 4to, decorated cloth, 50c. 

“A captivating story. Teddy and Nancy win our hearts. 
Tedd’ys brave fight with himself commands admiration, and stout- 
hearted, handsome Nancy, a real girl in all her doings, conquers 
the heart. A very good story is this for the children.” — The 
Christian Intelligencer. 

“‘Teddy’s Button’ was taken from the coat of his dying sol- 
dier father, and in the hands of the boy became a sort of talisman 
and an incentive to valiant service as a soldier of Jesus Christ. 
The story is one of fascinating interest, and the moral of it is not 
far to seek. The little folks will need no urging to read it.” — The 
Evangelist, 


THOUGHTLESS SEVEN 

Profusely illustrated. Small 4to, decorated 
cloth, 50c. 

, “Thunder,” “Li” (Lightning), “Taters,” “ Honey,” “Pat,” 
“Pixie,” and “Doodle-doo,” make up the rollicking group whose 
adventures and chatter are here recorded. They are mercurial 
and insurrectionary to the last degree, and fly in a perpetual “merry- 
go-round.” But a strain of seriousness early begins to develop, 
leading up into large and noble Christian experience and ambition. 
The incarnation of religion in daily life where it is “ not too good for 
human nature’s daily food,” is admirably exemplified and com- 
mended.” — Watchman. 

“A big and a bright and interesting family is here set before 
us. How one of them began to think, and then by acting on her 
thinking led the others into the right way the little sketch tells. 
—Pilgrim Teacher. 


By AMT LE FEUVRE 


QN THE EDGE OF THE 
MOOR 

Illustrated. i2mo, cloth, $i.oo. 

“A delightful story of a quiet country life, of one who was 
eager to do good to her fellow-beings, and who improved every op- 
portunity to do so. Especially may those whose home is in the 
quiet country,and who think that there ts no opportunities for doing 
good to be found there, find hints of ways in which much good may 
be done. The lives into which the least sunshine comes — these 
are the ones which need our help the most.” — Christian Herald, 

” This is another of those charming and healthy stories for 
young people for which this author has become distinguished. It 
is a good book for the home or the Sunday-school library.” — Zion's 
Herald. 


DWELL DEEP 

Illustrated, i6mo, cloth, 75c. 

“ A story of a girl who, being left without a home, went to live 
with her guardian, who had a number of children. Hilda Thom 
was trying to be a Christian, and her associates were very worldly, 
which made it hard for her. It is an interesting story, with 
the reality of experience.” — The Religious Herald, 

“An intensely interesting story. The author plainly illustrates 
the possibility of magnifying Christian life and character amid the 
whirl of gayety and pleasure in social life. Character speaks with 
effectiveness, and the world bows in acknowledgment to practical 
Christianity in a positive religious character. The author evidently 
has succeeded in making her characters seem to be real and pos- 
sible.” — Christian Intelligencer. 


fJIS BIG OPPORTUNITY 

Illustrated. i2mo, cloth, 75c. 

“Aside from its lively interest, this story will be good for boys 
to read. It does not preach, but its influence is strong for the 
right, and it leaves a smack of hearty encouragement in the youth- 
ful mind.”— TAif Independent. 

“ Here is a capital little story for boys, for girls, or for grown 
people. Of course, it is a story with a moral, and the moral is al- 
ways obvious ; but it does not interrupt the story, which is good.* 
— Church Standard. 

The story is a very pretty one, and nice to give little children 
or to put in a Sunday-school library. The sentiment is not mawk- 
ish nor the religious element overdone. 


By AMT LE F E U V R B 


gUNNY’S FRIENDS 

i2mo, decorated boards, 30c. 

“Bunny is a little girl, and her friends are a rabbit, a pony 
and a lark. Each one narrates his experiences to the child as she 
is alone with him in the open room. Children will listen eagerly to 
the reading of these little tales, and will doubtless be profited by 
them.” — N'. V. Observer, 

“ ‘Bunny’ herself was not a rabbit, as one might suspect. She 
was a little lonely girl, and her name was Dora, She had a little, 
dark, silky head, and big, blue eyes, which were always staring out 
at the world with big thoughts behind them, and she was still only 
when some one told her a story .” — Western Christian Advocate, 


J^RICS GOOD NEWS 

Illustrated, i2mo, decorated boards, 30c. 

“ Eric Wallace is an invalid lad, delicate, sweet and winsome, 
who by precept and example leads erring and scoffing men to faith 
in Christ. Tne good work is d<me in a natural and perfectly childish 
way, without any painful exhibitions of precocity or goodishness. 
The story is simply a glimpse here and there into the life of a pure 
hearted, sweet natured, happy soul who leads others into the light 
because he is in the light himself. It is a tender and beautiful story 
of Christian influence, conduct and example .” — Christian Work, 


W^HAT THE WIND DID 

i2mo, decorated boards, 30c. 

“Miss Le Feuvre's stories about child life are charmingly 
well written and suggestive ,” — Christian Advocate. 

“ Her stories are as bright and interesting and touching as if 
Juliana Ewing or I.aura Richards had written them.” — Evangelist. 

“A clever tale, written with a high purpose. ... A suc- 
cessful endeavor of one whose pen has found its highest employ- 
ment in the realistic sketching of child life .” — Christian Advocate. 


gULBS AND BLOSSOMS 

An Easter Booklet. With illustrations by 
Eveline Lance, i2mo, cloth, 50c. 

“ Many sweet lessons of faith and love drop from the lips of 
these little ones, and how they brought forth fruit in the heart of 
one of the aunts is impressively brought out. The book is daintily 
bound, and pretty illustrations brighten it ” — Louisville Observer. 

“ An engaging Easter story in relation to two children who 
are sent from India to their aunt in England to acquire strength 
and v^or from a cool climate and other benefits from association 
with English people .” — Christian Intelligencer, 




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